| “The sweetest lives are those to duty wed Whose deeds both great and small, Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread, Where love ennobles all. The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells; The Book of Life the shining record tells.” —Elizabeth Barrett Browning. |
After the departure of an inmate of a family, whether that person has been pleasant or otherwise, there follows a feeling of blankness, of something amiss. Distance, in truth, produces in idea the same effect as in real perspective. Objects are softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and more ordinary points of character are mellowed down, and those by which it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity, grace, or beauty. And so it was with Harriet.
Her irritability, her unpleasant remarks, her ceaseless demand upon their service were soon forgotten. The grace and dignity that distinguished her from others were remembered to her advantage. The pleasant smile, the pretty manner, the imperious bearing were idealized in the softening glamour of absence. The mode of her departure had palliated whatever of resentment Mrs. Owen and Peggy might have felt for the girl’s breach of hospitality.
“I believe that I am lonesome without Harriet,” declared Peggy one evening. “Is thee, mother?”
It was the seventh day of Harriet’s absence. Tea was over. The servants had retired for the night, and mother and daughter sat alone in the sitting-room, knitting by the light of the candles.
“’Tis most natural for us to miss her, my daughter. She hath been with us so long, and with thee especially that ’tis not to be wondered at that thee feels lost. Harriet hath many good qualities. She hath been left to follow her own impulses too much, but I hope that her association with thee hath been of benefit to her.”
“With me, mother?” exclaimed Peggy flushing scarlet at this praise. “Thee should not say that. In truth, I don’t deserve it, mother. I was often vexed with her, and sometimes gave way to sharpness. I ofttimes went to my room to gain control of myself. I have a temper, mother, as thee must know.”
“I do, my child; but I know too that thou art trying to get the mastery of it. Because thou didst so strive is the reason that I believe that companionship with thee will make Harriet better. She hath received impressions that cannot fail to be of advantage to her. I am hoping that Harriet will make a noble woman.”
“I wonder,” said Peggy musingly, “why Clifford did not write to her? It would have saved all this trouble had he done so.”
“Thee must remember that he said in his letter that he thought they were to stop for a time at Fredericksburg. They may not have done so, or he may have been taken elsewhere after a short stop. Mr. Reed says that there was no report of any such party at any of the taverns there.”