The three knelt down, while Honor, forbidden by a gesture to move, bowed her head; Atli gave thanks as simply and heartily as if the Father he adored were present in mortal guise; in the silence that followed, Honor felt her heart lifted higher than it had ever been before.
A little later, while rubbing her ankle, Gretli explained to Honor. Mademoiselle did not wholly understand, was it not so? That was but natural; it was a matter of family, did she see? It was a rule of their beloved mother, now with the saints, that if any ill were spoken of a person, it must be followed by some good.
“As is but just!” Gretli nodded emphatically, rubbing away methodically. “‘We are compact of good and evil,’ the mother would say, ‘no human creature but has something of both. Since the good God made us, there must be more of good than of evil, yet it often chances that we see the evil first, because it thrusts itself forth, like a loose stone on a slippery Alp, hoping to do mischief; thus, it is our duty at once to look for the good.’ Thus said our sainted mother; and thus it is our custom to allow no evil to be spoken of any person without a good word being added by each one of the family.”
“It is a beautiful custom!” said Honor. “I shall try to remember that, Gretli, all my life.”
Gretli’s smile was radiant as she tucked the blankets in around Honor’s shoulders.
“Mademoiselle Honor would never speak evil of any one, it is most probable!” she said. “Yet to any of us—since we are mortal,—that may arrive. Our Zitli, for example; it is rarely—oh, but very rarely—that he has any such trouble as to-night. He is not strong, do you see, mademoiselle, and—at Lucerne—there are things that—that it is better to forget!” she concluded cheerfully. “Since now he is so well, and suffers seldom and little by comparison, all that is gone. ‘Look not mournfully into the past, it returns not!’—that is well said, not so? Good-night, my little demoiselle! Sleep well, and all saints have you in their holy keeping!”
CHAPTER IX
STORY-TELLING
The next day was so beautiful, and Honor’s ankle was so much better, that Gretli declared she must not stay in the house. The reclining chair was brought out on the green plot, and there Honor was established, an improvised awning (two sticks and a counterpane) over her head, a table beside her, a piece of knitting to occupy her hands. Here she was spending the happiest of mornings, Zitli on one side, with his table and tools, on the other William Tell, who had been introduced to her only that morning, but who was already her faithful friend and—I was going to say “slave,” but there was nothing servile about Tell. He happened to have four legs and a tail, and he had not learned articulate speech; otherwise, he was a gentleman and a scholar—in various lines neglected in most schools.
Gretli came out from the châlet, with her inevitable tray; it was time for goûter, she announced; a glass of buttermilk, a fresh roll, a bit of cheese. Like that, mademoiselle would not grow thin, was it not so?