Rose’s tears fell fast as she folded up the letter, and Annie’s kept company with them. There was a bond of sympathy now between the three, as they talked together of the soldiers, Mrs. Simms and Annie devising various methods by which they might be benefited, and Rose wishing she, too, could do something for them.
“But I can’t,” she said, despairingly. “I never did anybody any real good in all my life,—only bothered them,” and Rose sighed as she thought how useless and aimless was her present mode of life.
“You’ll learn by and by,” said the widow, in a tone unusually soft for her; then, as if the sock she held in her lap had suggested the idea, she continued, “Can you knit?”
Rose shook her head.
“Nor your mother, neither?”
Again Rose shook her head, feeling quite ashamed that she should lack this accomplishment.
“Well,” the widow went on, “’taint much use to learn now. ’Twould take a year to git one stocking done, but if when winter comes, that brother of yours wants socks and mittens, or the like of that, tell him I’ll knit ’em for him.”
“Oh, you are so kind!” cried Rose, thinking to herself how she’d send Widow Simms some pineapple preserves, such as she had with dessert that day.
They grew to liking each other very fast after this, and Rose staid until the little round table was arranged for tea and rolled to Annie’s bedside. There was no plate for Rose, the widow having deemed it preposterous that she should stay, but the table looked so cosy, with its tiny black teapot, and its nicely buttered toast, that Rose invited herself, with such a pretty, patronizing way, that the widow failed to see the condescension it implied. It did not, however, escape Annie’s observation, but she could not feel angry with the little lady, touching her bone-handled knife as if she were afraid of it, and looking round in quest of the napkin she failed to find, for Widow Simms had banished napkins from the table as superfluous articles, which answered no earthly purpose, save the putting an extra four cents into the pocket of the washerwoman, Harry Baker’s mother.
It was growing late, and the sunset shadows were already creeping into the Hollow when Rose bade Annie good-bye, promising to come again ere long, and wondering, as she took her homeward way, whence came the calm, quiet peace which made Annie Graham so happy, even though her husband were far away in the midst of danger and death. Rose had heard that Annie was a Christian, and so were many others whom she knew, but they were much like herself,—good, well-meaning people, amiable, and submissive when everything went to suit them, but let their husbands once join the army and they would make quite as much fuss as she, who did not profess to be anything. And then, for the first time in her life, Rose wished she, too, could learn from Annie’s teacher, and so have something to sustain her in case her husband should go. But he wouldn’t go,—and if he did, all the religion in the world could not make her resigned,—and the tears sprang to Rose’s eyes as she hurried up the handsome walk to the piazza, where Will sat smoking his cigar in the hazy twilight. She told him where she had been, and then sitting upon his knee told him of Annie, wishing she could be like her, and asking if he did not wish so too.