“Fidelia, I may tell you now how unhappy I was for a time last year. Not unhappy exactly, but anxious and afraid—”
“And you sent me away?”
“Yes, dear, as was best. And when you came home, the worst was nearly over. Dr Everett came next day and gave me hope, and then Dr Justin came, and I was not afraid any more. He seemed to know—to understand better even than Dr Everett. Oh, Fidelia, I never can tell you the thankfulness of my heart! I wonder I didn’t sing it out to you a hundred times. But they seemed to think it was best not to say anything to you, as I had not spoken before. But I am glad to speak now, though I am afraid you will be startled.”
Fidelia rose and placed herself with her face turned from the light.
“Well?”
“Fidelia, you remember grandmother—how very patiently she suffered, and how long? Oh, no one but Dr Everett and myself knows what she suffered! It was a long and terrible time. Every night we used to pray together—she and I—that she might be patient to the end, and that, if it were God’s will, the end might be hastened. And so, when I thought—when the awful fear first came to me that I had all that to go through—well, for a while my faith failed me. I did not tell any one, not even Dr Everett. That was last year. Then you went away, and the winter was long and lonesome; but I was helped, and strengthened, and comforted, even at the worst time.
“It was not all fancy, dear. I had some cause for fear, but the danger for me is not that. I shall have no long time of suffering, they say; and, though I can never hope to be very strong again, I may live and have such health as I have now for years. And, Fidelia, you must not say that I should have told you, and that I should not have let you go away. I could not have you suffer in seeing my suffering as long as I could keep it from you; and you see it was better so. You must have known after a time, if my fears had been realised, but not too soon.”
Fidelia had listened like one in a dream. Her fears had touched nothing like this. All the time she had been thinking of quite other things. She sank down on her knees, and laid her face on her sister’s lap with a cry.
“Oh, my Eunice—my Eunice!” Eunice laid her hand on her bowed head, but she did not speak for a while. By-and-by she said, gently—
“Fidelia, listen to me. There is nothing to grieve for. Think how different it might have been, and what a happy summer I have had! Neither pain, nor fear of pain—only a quiet mind, and rest, and peace. Tell me, dear, have you not sometimes been afraid of me, that I might have long suffering before me? And are you not glad and thankful with me? There is nothing to grieve for—nothing. Fidelia, have you never been afraid?” Fidelia raised her head.