“And so far,” she said to herself, “I have neither part nor lot in the matter.” Her face grew grave as she stood looking away to the darkening hills. Hitherto she had lived for herself and for Eunice. Now Eunice was gone, what was she going to do with her life? What would Eunice have liked her to do?
“Miss Fidelia,” said Jabez in a little, “you’ll be going back to the seminary this fall, I suppose. It is a good place to go to, I guess. And it would be lonesome here now.”
“Yes, it would be lonesome here. Yes, I think I may go back again. There seems to be nothing better to do than to go there. Eunice always wished me to go.”
But she spoke sadly, and evidently without much interest.
“You will like it when you are fairly there, and have begun at your books again,” said Jabez.
“Yes, I suppose so. It is best to go any way. Eunice wished it.”
“I am glad of one thing—I shall be gone first,” said Jabez.
“Shall you? When do you go?”
“Next week, if grandma can get my things ready. Time is precious.”
“She must let us help her,” said Fidelia; and then there was silence between them. Fidelia was thinking of a letter which she had received a day or two since, which must be answered soon. Miss Kent had written to her, inviting her to visit her in Boston for as long a time as she could stay. It was such a letter as it is good to write and to receive. There were a few words of sympathy in her sorrow for her sister’s loss, and a few more as to the pleasant things to be done and seen and enjoyed during the visit; but the best of it was the evident kindness and sincerity of the writer in all she said.