But the poor lady’s enjoyments were few; she was an educated but not an intellectual woman, and cared little for any books except novels of the most frivolous and sensational class; she had no friends, hardly an acquaintance in the city, having purposely avoided society from extreme sensitiveness regarding the loss of her hand—a loss which had befallen her prior to the removal of herself and husband to Chicago. And she was also a stranger to the consolations of religion.
CHAPTER XXV.
STITCH, STITCH, STITCH.
“The web of our life is of a mingled
Yarn, good and ill together.”—Shakespeare.
“I’m afraid I’ve taken you too far: you look dreadfully tired!” said Hetty, as she and Floy reached home after their walk.
“No, don’t worry, I’ve enjoyed it very much; a walk on an agreeable errand, and in pleasant company, is such a rare treat nowadays. It’s only a headache,” Floy answered, trying to smile.
“Only a headache! I call that worse than only being tired. I’m real sorry for you. Just go into my parlor and take off your things and lie down on the lounge. You’ll be nice and quiet there, and you’re not to mind the supper-bell. I’ll bring you a cup of tea and some toast.”
Rest and quiet. They were what the weary frame, the aching head, and homesick heart craved just then above everything else that seemed attainable.