“No, my Bobby, no!” said Ethel, bending over him and drawing his arm around her neck. “If you had died, poor sister would have had no one in the world to love; and that would be the worst thing that could happen to anybody.”
“It’s not so bad as being lame,” said the boy.
“O Bobby, I think it’s worse!” said Ethel, half involuntarily.
“Then it shows how much you know about it!” said Bobby; and Ethel made haste to soothe and reassure him, and tell him how much she sympathized with his trouble, and stifled back the wish that he, or somebody, could sympathize with hers.
When night came at last, and the child had gone to sleep, and Ethel was alone in her little room that opened into his, she softly closed the door between them, and gave herself up to the luxury of a good cry. It was one of the few luxuries within her reach; she did not often indulge herself in this, but to-night she felt she must. It was this craving for sympathy which brought it on her—the passionate wish that somebody understood her and was aware of the struggle she made continually, by day and by night, to still the craving of her heart for love. She loved Bobby, but he was an unceasing care to her, and she wanted somebody to care for her, as she cared for him. If she had, how ardently grateful would she be for such care and protection—and how little he seemed to respond to or appreciate it! Of course, it was not to be expected of a crippled boy, continually preoccupied by pain, and, as a rule, she never thought of expecting it. But to-night she felt that need of being understood swelling up within her so passionately, that it seemed almost more than she could bear.
When she had cried until there seemed to be no more tears left to shed, she got up and went to the old dressing-table to prepare for bed. She looked at herself, half bitterly, as she realized how useless all those foolish tears had been. She might as well make up her mind that her lot in life was to be drudgery and disappointment, and that no one would ever really understand her or enter into the feelings of her heart.
She pulled open a drawer to get something out, and as she did so she remembered the manuscript. She took it out and looked at the cold, unsympathetic typewriting on the back. It was foolish of her to shrink from opening it, and she would compel herself to look once more at those poor pages which she had written with such heart throbbings, and sent off with such hopes.
Running a hairpin along the edge of the sealed envelope, she cut it open and drew the contents out. How was this? They looked unfamiliar. There was no binding with blue ribbons, no delicate woman-writing. Instead, she held in her hands a number of loose sheets covered with the strong, distinct, nervous characters of a man’s hand. The title of this manuscript was The Draught Divine. The title of hers had been The Soul-Thirst. The caption under the title was exactly the one that she had put under hers:
“The thirst which from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a draught divine.”