“Nothing wonderful in it,” Miss Clarendon said: and as she ungraciously rejected praise, however sincere, and required not sympathy, Helen was reduced to be a mere silent, stupid, useless stander-by, and she could not but feel this a little awkward. She tried to interest herself for the poor people in the neighbourhood, but their language was unintelligible to her, and her’s to them, and it is hard work trying to make objects for oneself in quite a new place, and with a pre-occupying sorrow in the mind all the time. It was not only hard work to Helen, but it seemed labour in vain—bringing soil by handfulls to a barren rock, where, after all, no plant will take root. Miss Clarendon thought that labour could never be in vain.
One morning, when it must be acknowledged that Helen had been sitting too long in the same position, with her head leaning on her hand, Miss Clarendon in her abrupt voice asked, “How much longer, Helen, do you intend to sit there, doing only what is the worst thing in the world for you—thinking?”
Helen started, and said she feared she had been sitting too long idle.
“If you wish to know how long, I can tell you,” said Miss Clarendon; “just one hour and thirteen minutes.”
“By the stop watch,” said Helen, smiling.
“By my watch,” said grave Miss Clarendon; “and in the mean time look at the quantity of work I have done.”
“And done so nicely!” said Helen, looking at it with admiration.
“Oh, do not think to bribe me with admiration; I would rather see you do something yourself than hear you praise my doings.”
“If I had anybody to work for. I have so few friends now in the world who would care for anything I could do! But I will try—you shall see, my dear Esther, by and bye.”
“By and bye! no, no—now. I cannot bear to see you any longer, in this half-alive, half-dead state.”