Floy felt that it would, and in trembling, tearful tones drew a bright picture of the happy home of her childhood, the tender parental love and care that had made it such in no ordinary degree.
Hetty was just the deeply-interested, sympathizing listener the poor heart craved, and the outpouring relieved it of half its load.
“What a change for you—coming here!” was Hetty’s comment; “and how well you have borne it! so patient, so uncomplaining, so diligent, and faithful! I hardly know how you can have sufficient energy and ambition.”
“A strange remark coming from you,” returned Floy, smiling faintly as she wiped away the tears she had been shedding to the memory of the dear ones gone, “you who seem to me to be the very embodiment of energy and ambition.”
“Ah, I’m used to the life, and I have an object; poor mother has only me to relieve her of her heavy burdens; love of her lightens toil wonderfully!”
“Love of Another too, Hetty; isn’t it so? And I too can rejoice in the hope that He is pleased when I strive to do my work faithfully, because it is of His appointment, and be patient under trial, because He sends it.”
Hetty silently pressed the hand she held, a tender moisture gathering in her eyes.
“And—yes, I will tell you, for I am sure you are a true friend, one worthy of my confidence. I have another object in life besides the necessity of earning my own support.”
And in a few brief, eager sentences, alight shining in her eyes, a tender smile hovering around her full, red lips, Floy told of her hope that she had still a mother living, and should some day be able to search her out.
Hetty listened to the tale in almost breathless surprise and delight.