"But I know I shall never be a Saint," continued Amice, just glancing at the chair, but pursuing her own thoughts, as usual. "Do you know, Rosamond, I was really afraid to enter that room?"
"So I thought, and that was what made me offer. But Amice, I do think you need not have answered Mother Gertrude so."
"I know it," she said, in a kind of despairing tone. "O yes! I do need to have my pride mortified. But I shall never be a Saint, after all."
"I'll tell you what, child," said Mother Gertrude, who had come upon us unawares, in the noise we were making. "You are a deal more likely to make a Saint if you stop thinking about yourself and turning yourself inside out all the time. Saints, daughter, cannot be made, to my thinking. You can make artificial flowers to look very pretty at a distance, but if you want a real live plant, with sap, and leaves, and flowers, and fruit, you must needs give it time to grow."
Methinks a very wise saying of the dear old Mother's, and one I shall lay up.
We finished dusting the old chairs, and then began to wonder how we should make them presentable, for, though the frames were good, the covers were both ragged and faded, and there was no time to get them covered anew. Presently Amice made a suggestion.
"You know the brown Hollands, of which we have great store in the wardrobe. Why not make covers of that, binding them with some bright colors? If they were nicely laundried, as Sister Bridget knows how to do them, I think they would at least be neat and pleasant."
"Upon my word, child, 'tis a good thought, and well devised!" said Mother Gertrude, much pleased, as she always is whenever we show any cleverness. "We will try it on the withdrawing room, at any rate: and 'twas a good thing to remember Sister Bridget, too, poor thing, for she loves to be of service, though her wits are small. I tell you, children, talking of saints, that poor weakly dull thing is nearer to real saintship than some who are far wiser, and think themselves far holier, to boot. Rosamond, do you bring down a piece of the Hollands, and we will see how it looks."
In the wardrobe, chancing to look out at the window, I saw Amice reading something, which presently she put into her bosom. Some old book of devotion, I dare say. She will never throw away a bit of written or printed paper, if she can help it.
