Won by her companion’s sympathetic interest, Nathalie told that they were spending the summer at Seven Pillars, up near “Peckett’s on Sugar Hill,” but she was cautious not to tell of the peculiar conditions of their stay, or of her aunt’s strange letter. Miss Whipple, as that proved to be the lady’s name, said that she had known her aunt, Mrs. Renwick, and considered her a very interesting woman, although, to be sure, she was somewhat eccentric. Nathalie also told about her Liberty Girls, a subject that was always close to her heart, and how she was going to try to teach liberty to the little settlement-boys, who were coming up to stay with her for a few weeks.
The invalid, and also her sister, were both greatly interested in Nathalie’s merry chatter; for Mona had come from the kitchen and seated herself on a low stool by the feet of her sister, who would interpret to her as the girl rattled on. In return for Nathalie’s confidences she told how she and her sister, although having been born in the White Mountains, had lived since childhood in Boston. On the death of their parents, after meeting with some reverses, she explained, they had determined to come up to the old homestead and start a sweet-pea farm, as her sister was passionately fond of flowers.
It was delightful work, she said, and it meant so much that was beautiful and joyous to her sister, who, of course, on account of her infirmity, was deprived of many pleasures that other people enjoyed. They had an old farm-hand who had lived with them when they were small children, who did the rough gardening, and who made the farm pay by selling the flowers to the mountain hotels.
“The tea-house was my sister’s inspiration,” continued Miss Whipple, “and has always been a source of great enjoyment to us both, as so many of the young people from the hotels and boarding-houses would drop in of an afternoon for a cup of tea, or a little dance, as I always used to make it a point to be on hand to play for them. My sister,” she added a little sadly, “although deprived herself of the joys of girlhood, has always been passionately devoted to the young, and has spent any amount of labor in trying to make our little tea-room attractive.
“But now, as I cannot play any more,—you see I am the victim of inflammatory rheumatism,”—she held up her bandaged hands pathetically,—“the young people do not come in as much as they did. It is a great disappointment to us both,” concluded the invalid dolefully, “although perhaps my sister is partly compensated by her work among her flowers.
“But I am wrong to complain in this way,” she hastened to add, a sudden expression of contrition darkening the sweetness of her glance, “for every one has to endure disappointment and sorrow, sooner or later, as my mother used to tell me when I was a girl; and, after all, ours might have been much worse. I try to comfort myself with the thought that all these little jars of life are just ‘helps’ to fit one for the greater life beyond. Indeed,” she added softly, “I grow ashamed of myself for thinking I am even disappointed, when I think of the renunciation, the sufferings, and the agony of the Man of Sorrows, that we might have joy.”
Nathalie made no reply, not only because she was at a loss for words to express her sympathy, but stilled, possibly, by the beautiful look of calm peace that had crept into the sweet eyes.
“But I am wearying you,” smiled the invalid, her eyes lighting with a warm glow, “making you think I am a great martyr because I am deprived of a few things that I think needful to my happiness. Perhaps I am in a particularly rebellious mood to-day, for I am so anxious to read a book a friend sent me, but with my poor hands I cannot hold it, and it makes my neck ache to read from the bookstand. But here comes Mona with your dried clothing; yes, and to bring me off my cross of martyrdom by her sweet patience, for she is always cheery and smiling under her great deprivations.”
“Oh, and she can’t even read to you!” lamented Nathalie impulsively, suddenly reminded of what it must mean to live with a person who could not talk to you.
“Yes, and that is one of the nails in the cross,” said the shut-in, with whimsical sweetness, “for I not only want some one to talk, to read to me, but sometimes I just yearn for the sound of a human voice. Oh, but I am getting selfish again—for,—Yes, as soon as you get your gown on, you must go with Mona to see her sweet peas; she would love to show them to you.”