“Nor I,” echoed Rose.
“My dears,” said Anne, smiling, “the prosperity of life lies largely in the true use of imagination.”
“You are incorrigible, Anne. But I know I am right.”
“Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, are ofttimes different,” quoted Anne, rising, and not over well pleased. “I think I shall go and lie down.”
“I think I would,” said Mrs. Lyndsay, simply. “You are not looking well to-day.”
“I am well enough,” said Miss Anne.
“All ready!—and the fish and Polycarp!” cried Lyndsay.
Rose was soon in the canoe, and the men began poling across the river. As they moved, she sat, reflecting upon the little scene she had witnessed. It troubled her that two people so dear to her should not always understand each other. The mother had already ceased to think of it, and the aunt’s irritability was a matter of minutes. Only Anne Lyndsay knew how sternly a remarkable intellect had by degrees dictated terms of reasonable life to a quick temper and a tongue too perilously skilful. This endless warfare was now rarely visible, but its difficulties were terribly increased at times when weakness and pain grew hard to endure and fought on the side of her foes. There were, indeed, times during the weariness of travel when Rose Lyndsay was startled by what she saw; times when Anne was striving with constantly increasing pain. Then it would end with a laugh and a jest, and some quaint defense of pain as a form of moral education, until Rose, despite herself, would be reassured, and she
Who would have given a caliph’s gold
For consolation, was herself consoled.