But Myron herself reaped no blessing of peace from these duties. What a strange fantasy it is to dream, as many do, that the occupation of nursing is one which heals a hurt heart and reconciles yearning hands to their emptiness! What dreary days did Myron not know! What solemn, silent nights, when alone, she sat at Misery's banquet and supped with Sorrow—with shame, regret, and betrayed trust to hand the dish.
"We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs."
So some one says; and, reckoning by this higher notation, how many centuries of weariness had not Myron lived? The spring months came, scarce changed in sky from those of winter, only the gathering heat of the sun sent up "sorrow from the ground." Malaria, influenza, and typhoid overspread the country. The whole neighborhood was gloomy. The rain fell day after day. The plough horses splashed through mud, and the furrows filled with water behind the plough.
Myron had been working at a cousin's of Mrs. Warner's, whose baby was sick unto death. The child died, and its mother, in the first rebellion of grief, had said to Myron:
"'Tain't just—I can't think it is—nor right, neither—for my baby to be taken when there's so many left alive that ain't any use. There's old Humphries, and paralytic Henry Deans, and drunken Ann Lemon—what's the good of them to anybody—it's a shame!"
Myron soothed her as well as she could, but she burst forth again:
"Fancy my child dead! If it had been that young one of yours, now, there would have been some sense in it—a young one without even a name—that would have been a good riddance—but mine—mine!"
For once Myron's very soul was shaken with rage. She turned where she stood, and looked the other woman in the face.
"Oh!" she cried, "you wicked, wicked woman!"
The words carried all the accusation of outraged motherhood in their tones. The woman shrank back, and Myron, taking her boy, set off to the village.