Janet's Love and Service

by Margaret M. Robertson

And, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable and exacting, and “ill to do with,” as Janet would have said, Graeme stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and self-contempt, when she came to herself again. She went out with her for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would have made her laugh if all had been well with her.

It was an anxious time to Graeme. When their brothers were with them, Rose was little different from the Rose of old, as far as they could see; and, at such times, even Graeme would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little cause. But another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or restlessness, and Graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister’s good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little while. But, through all her watching, and waiting, and anxiety, Graeme spoke no word that might betray to her sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her.

For, indeed, what could she say? Even in her secret thoughts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young sister. Was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or disappointment? Or was it something which time and change might not so easily or so surely dispel? There were no words to be spoken, however it might be. That was plain enough, Graeme said to herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsuspected among them all.

Not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon Rose. That was never for a moment to be believed. Nothing that had happened to Rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had been changed. Rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was younger, too, and, perhaps, as Janet had said, “of a lighter nature.” Graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the cloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. She did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so she waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her somewhere in the world.

“Graeme,” said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long time silent together, “suppose we were to go and see Norman and Hilda this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose.”

“Would you like it?” asked Graeme, a little surprised.

“Yes. For some things I would like it;” and Graeme fancied there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. “It is a better season to go, for one thing—a better season for health, I mean. One bears the change of climate better, they say.”

“But you have been here so short a time. What would Arthur say, and Fanny? It would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here—as if your home was with Norman.”

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

“Well! neither Arthur nor Fanny would be inconsolable. The chances are it may be my home. It is worth taking into consideration. Indeed, I have been considering the matter for some time past.”