“‘IS IT YOU, MARTHA?’”
Martha had come near, and now took the seat beside the lounge, her face tragic with sympathy.
“I am so sorry you are ill,” was all that she could say.
“I am not ill, really,” said the princess. She was lying back upon the lounge, and fanning her flushed face with her little gossamer handkerchief, which Martha could see was limp with tears. “My head does ache now, but I brought it on by this wretched crying. It’s all my own fault. You did not know that I was such a weakling, did you?” and she made an effort to smile.
“Oh, I am so, so sorry!” said Martha, helplessly.
“You needn’t be, dear. Never be sorry for any man or woman who is equal to his or her life—and I am equal to mine. One time out of ten it gets the better of me, but the nine times I get the better of it. This mood will surely pass. Indeed, it is passing now. You have helped me already. It has been very long indeed since I have found or wanted human help, and it takes me by surprise.”
Martha saw that she was preparing to lead the talk away from her recent tears and their cause, and she passionately wished that her friend should feel that she longed to enter into her sorrow with her, if it could be allowed her; so she said impulsively:
“I don’t suppose you feel like telling me your trouble; but oh, I wish you could!”