“Of course—everybody who wishes to be. Some people are happier when they're miserable. I don't mean, deary, that it's easy for any of us, and it's harder for some than for others, all because we never grow up. We're always children—our playthings are a little different, that's all.”
“'Owning ourselves forever children,' quoted Ruth, “'gathering pebbles on a boundless shore.'”
“Yes, I was just thinking of that. A little girl breaks her doll, and though the new one may be much prettier, it never wholly fills the vacant place, and it's that way with a woman's dream.” The sweet voice sank into a whisper, followed by a lingering sigh.
“Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, after a pause, “did you know my mother?”
“No, I didn't, deary—I'm sorry. I saw her once or twice, but she went away, soon after we came here.”
“Never mind,” Ruth said, hurriedly, for Mrs. Thorne's family had never forgiven her runaway marriage.
“Come into the garden,” Miss Ainslie suggested, and Ruth followed her, willingly, into the cloistered spot where golden lilies tinkled, thrushes sang, and every leaf breathed peace.
Miss Ainslie gathered a bit of rosemary, crushing it between her white fingers. “See,” she said, “some of us are like that it takes a blow to find the sweetness in our souls. Some of us need dry, hard places, like the poppies “—pointing to a mass of brilliant bloom—“and some of us are always thorny, like the cactus, with only once in a while a rosy star.
“I've always thought my flowers had souls, dear,” she went on; “they seem like real people to me. I've seen the roses rubbing their cheeks together as if they loved each other, and the forget-me-nots are little blue-eyed children, half afraid of the rest.
“Over there, it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She's one of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her sweetness lingers long after she goes away. I gather all the flowers, and every leaf, though the flowers are sweetest. I put the leaves away with my linen and the flowers among my laces. I have some beautiful lace, deary.”