"Nonsense!" answered Marion, pushing her away. "I am not quite such a goose now, I hope."
It was a certain fact that Marion's room was becoming a centre of attraction. The large south parlour, which joined Mrs. Van Alstine's room, had been made into a bedroom for her, to the amazement of Gerty, who wondered how Mother Van Alstine could think of such a thing. But Mrs. Van Alstine answered quietly that one parlour and dining-room answered very well, and that Marion could not go up and down stairs. Here she had her bed and dressing-bureau, her reclining-chair, and other special possessions. Hither came the middle boys with new specimens of fish, flesh, and fowl, and the Scotchman with lessons to learn, stories to read, and carving to execute. Here Mr. Van Alstine was pretty sure to stop before he went out after dinner, and here he often read his paper after tea. If Marion had still coveted "influence" as much as she had done at one time, she might have been pleased with the thought that she was at last in a fair way to obtain it.
But Marion had done with such dreams for the present. During her long days of pain and weakness, when she could bear neither reading nor conversation, she had gone over her own life from as far back as she could remember, and the retrospect had not been agreeable. Groundless pride, self-adulation, wasted opportunities, ingratitude,—she saw these things in their true colours at last. She was grieved and wearied and at times almost crushed by the weight of her sins. The remembrance was grievous to her, the burden intolerable. At times, guided by the gentle counsel of Harry or Bram's earnest sympathy, she could lay the burden where it belonged. At others she was ready to despair and to think that she should never be good for anything.
"We are none of us good for anything, except as it pleases our Master to make use of us," said Harry one day. "We must make up our minds to that, and then be thankful if he lets us do ever so little."
"But wasted time can never come back, and I may never have the chance to do what I might have done at home."
"We can all say that; but, Marie, I would not waste time or strength in vain regrets. Try to do the thing that comes to be done now, whether great or small, and let the dead past bury its dead."
"I don't know that I shall ever have anything to do again," said Marion.
"Never fear for that. It is a good deal to lie here patiently as you do—quite enough for the present, I think. And other work will come as you are able to meet it. People are never left without work, if only they are willing to do little things."
One of the little things had come to Marion in the way of helping Betsy with her lessons. (Elizabeth Margaretta's everyday name was properly Bessy, but somehow or other, neither that nor Lizzy nor Betty seemed to answer the purpose. As she herself said, Betsy was the only name that would stick.) The arrangement was found to work very well with a little of Cousin Helen's supervision and care to keep Marion from being overworked in Betsy's zeal to get on. For as was to be expected, Betsy was not always perfectly reasonable in her requirements, and did not know when to stop.
"She had just heard Rob's parsing, and I don't see why she couldn't hear mine," she grumbled one day when Cousin Helen quietly checked her.