“Yes, I have been afraid that perhaps, when you came to be an old woman like grandmother, you might have to suffer; but—”
“Well, you need not be afraid any more,” said Eunice, leaning back as though there was nothing more to be said.
“And are you well, Eunice? And have you nothing else to tell me?”
“I am well—for me. You must see that yourself, dear. I don’t expect ever to be very strong. I don’t think I was ever one of the strong women; and the strain of nursing and anxiety told more on me than it would on some women. But if I take care of myself now, I shall have strength to do a great deal; and now that Mrs Stone is here, to take the housekeeping when you are away, I shall have leisure for reading and other pleasant things. And I have my Sunday-school class, and I can visit my friends, and, though I can never do much at nursing again, I can go to see sick and sorrowful people, and help and comfort them a little perhaps. And I can always speak a word for my Lord and Master. My darling, I can see such a happy, restful life before me!”
“Oh, my Eunice—my Eunice!” Fidelia’s face was hidden again. “A happy life before her!” repeated she; and the thought of her own impatience and discontent, her envyings and her small ambitions, made her ashamed. “Oh, I am not a good girl! I am all wrong, all wrong!”
All thoughts of her “bad dream” had passed out of her mind till Eunice spoke again.
“Have I nothing else to tell? Nothing, I think, which you have not guessed already. And it may not come so soon as they think. But I think it need not trouble you. The thought of it does not trouble me any more except for your sake. And even to you the sorrow will only be for a little while, and the gladness will come after.”
Fidelia raised her head, and looked with beseeching eyes into the face of her sister.
“Eunice, tell me!”
Eunice stooped and kissed her with a smile on her lips, though they trembled a little.