She sits quite still while Lucy removes the jewels that shine about her, the white satin slippers, the elegant dress, and brings the snowy night-dress instead. Then as the maid kneels down and buttons the delicate robe, Bonnibel, glancing down, sees her eyes full of tears and her full lip quivering.
"Lucy," she says, in surprise, "what is it? What has grieved you?"
Lucy starts as if frightened at being detected.
"Forgive me, ma'am," she says; "it's for you I grieve. You are that changed that I can't bear it! Here I have been your maid since you was a little girl of twelve, and how happy you used to be before the master died—now for goin' on a year I've never seen a real smile on your face. Something troubles you all the time. Can't I help you? Can't I do something for you?"
The humble, patient fidelity of the girl touches Bonnibel to the heart, it is so seldom that an honest, heartfelt word of kindness falls on her ears. Impulsively she bends and puts her lily white hand into the strong clasp of the girl sitting humbly at her feet, looking up at her with tear-filled eyes.
"Lucy, my poor girl," she says, plaintively, "I believe you are the only true friend I have on earth!"
"Then can't I help you, Miss Bonnibel?" cried Lucy, feeling that the words of her young mistress are too true for her to dispute them. "Something troubles you—can't I help you to be happier?"
A sigh—hopeless, passionate, profound—drifts across the lips of the listener.
"No no, my poor, kind girl," she answers; "no one can help me—I must bear my own cross—no one can carry it for me! Only stay with me, Lucy, and love me always—I have so few to love me—and I shall feel better when I can see that your kind heart sympathizes with me."
"I'll never leave you, my dear mistress," sobs the girl; "I'll never forget to love every hair of your innocent head."