“One day, as I sat here feeling lonely, wretched, forlorn, I picked up my Thomas à Kempis, and suddenly a light seemed to break in upon me, and I said, ‘O fool, you with strength and vigor and opportunities, you who have the inherited wisdom of the world at your command, you the heir of all the ages, the son of a King!—shall you mourn and complain because Heaven denies you one boon? When was it ever decreed that you should be so favored above all other mortals as to be completely happy in this world of pain? Should the servant be above his Master?’
“So then I tried to learn to be content. I found something better than happiness,—it has been blessedness.
“I study when I can. But I am studying humanity chiefly. I am learning how to fill the needs of these brothers of mine. I am trying to show them that there is something better than the gold which seems to them the only thing worth working for. Yes, I love my work.”
There was a note of exultation in the voice, weak though it was, which thrilled me. I think I must have dozed, for the voices again sounded faint and far away. Presently as I returned to consciousness I heard the voice saying in little broken gasps of pain, “But oh, Mildred darling, do you know what this means? Do you know what it means when you promise to be willing to take me for better or for worse? You love books and pictures and music and beauty. Can I consent to see you deprived of them all, to share my lot?
“You do not know me yet. You are grateful to me for saving you; but it was simple humanity—humanity, nothing more. I was a fool to speak out as I did just now; it was only my weakness and selfishness. No, I cannot let you bind yourself yet; wait till you are well, till your friends come.
“You say they have wealth. What will they think of your giving them all up to settle in this dismal place and be the wife of a man who has not five hundred dollars in the world, and can offer you nothing but a life of toil?
“No, you shall be free. Forget that I dared to speak, that I dared for a moment to think—What? Why—why, Mildred, you are laughing!”
“Oh,” said Mildred in a different tone, “I—that is, I was only thinking of love in a cottage. I am not afraid of being poor; I can work too.”
“Ah, yes; but being poor in Boston, where you have the largest public library in the world, and the free Lowell lectures, and a glorious symphony concert now and then for only fifty cents, is one thing; and to be poor here, to stand at the washtub, and to scrub and clean and bake and mend, is quite another. There would be little call here for the work which you love and can do so well. These rough, hard-working men have little time or inclination to hear of Goethe or Dante.
“It would be cruel for me to let these soft, white hands grow hard and rough, to let your life which elsewhere could be so rich run to waste here.”