"'Tisn't her happy disposition," urged grandpa, coming into the room time enough to hear the last words. "That is, if you're speaking of Kitty Maynard, though, no doubt, a cheerful, even temper does help people to go through trouble. She has something better than that for her support: a spirit of grace in her heart, which enables her to be patient in tribulation, remembering that all her pains are ordered by One who watches over the humblest of His creatures with infinite tenderness."
"Mamma, may I go with you?" asked Maurice eagerly, as the lady was tying on her bonnet the next morning, preparatory to her walk.
"Yes, my dear; and if grandma is willing; we will pick a bouquet of mignonette, roses and verbenas. Kitty always liked flowers."
"Gather as many as you please, Mary," the old lady said, laughing. "I don't know who has a better right, as you send all the plants. Yes, Kitty thinks a deal of a bouquet. I've got a bowl of strawberries too, that Maurice may take if he has a mind."
"What's that in your bundle, mamma?"
"It's a loose gown, made of calico, so that it can be washed. I saw the print in the store and thought it just the thing for Kitty." She untied the bundle and held the robe up for inspection.
It was a neat, tasteful pattern of French calico; a tiny rose and bunch of leaves on a drab ground, trimmed down the front and sleeves with stripes of print to match.
"Just Kitty's style!" said grandma approvingly. "This will be one of her happy days, marked with a white stone, as she calls it."
But the old lady was mistaken. It was one of Kitty's worst days. Ever since light she had been in dreadful convulsions, more severe than she had had for months.
Maurice and his mother walked to the side of the bed through the open door; and no one seemed at leisure to notice them. There lay the poor, deformed girl on a couch in the centre of the small, neat room, at the foot of which her mother sat weeping, while two girls, sisters of Kitty, assisted the doctor in keeping her as much as possible from hurting herself.