Bessie would willingly have heard some encomium on the snug quarters provided for the weary guest, but Edna only looked round her indifferently, and then stifled a yawn.
“Is there anything you want? Can I help you? Oh, I hope you will sleep comfortably!” observed Bessie, a little mortified by Edna’s silence.
“Oh, yes: I am so tired that I am sure I shall sleep well,” returned Edna; and then she added quickly, “but I am so sorry to turn you out of your room.”
“Oh, that does not matter at all, thank you,” replied Bessie, stirring the fire into a cheerful blaze, and then bidding her guest good-night; but Edna, who had taken possession of the easy chair, exclaimed:
“Oh, don’t go yet—it is only eleven, and I am never in bed until twelve. Sit down a moment, and warm yourself.”
“Mother never likes us to be late,” hesitated Bessie; but she lingered, nevertheless. This was not an ordinary evening, and there were exceptions to every rule, so she knelt down on the rug a moment, and watched Edna taking down the long plaits of fair hair that had crowned her shapely head. “What lovely hair!” thought Bessie; “what a beautiful young creature she is altogether!”
Edna was unconscious of the admiration she was exciting. She was looking round her, and trying to realize what her feelings would be if she had to inhabit such a room. “Why, our servants have better rooms,” she thought.
To a girl of Edna’s luxurious habits Bessie’s room looked very poor and mean. The little strips of faded carpet, the small, curtainless bedstead, the plain maple washstand and drawers, the few simple prints and varnished bookcase were shabby enough in Edna’s eyes. She could not understand how any girl could be content with such a room; and yet Bessie’s happiest hours were spent there. What was a little shabbiness, or the wear and tear of homely furniture, to one who saw angels’ footprints even in the common ways of life, and who dreamed sweet, innocent dreams of the splendors of a heavenly home? To these sort of natures even threadbare garments can be worn proudly, for to these free spirits even poverty loses its sting. It is not “how we live,” but “how we think about life,” that stamps our characters, and makes us the men and women that we are.