"I wish the rain would let us go home too," she said.
"Your wishes are so accustomed to smooth travelling, they don't know what to make of a hindrance," said her companion.
Elizabeth knew it was true, and it vexed her. It seemed to imply that she had not been tried by life, and that nobody knew what she would be till she was tried. That was a very disagreeable thought. There again he had the advantage of her. Nothing is reliable that is not tried. "And yet," she said to herself, "I am reliable. I know I am."
"What can anybody's wish make of a hindrance?" was her reply.
"Graff it in well, and anybody can make a pretty large thorn of it."
"Why Mr. Winthrop! — but I mean, in the way of dealing with it pleasantly?"
"Pleasantly? — I don't know," said he; "unless they could get my mother's recipe."
"What does her wish do with a hindrance?"
"It lies down and dies," he said, with a change of tone which shewed whither his thoughts had gone.
"I think I never wish mine to do that," said Elizabeth.