"It is so pleasant, aunt Miriam, to forget these money cares!--to lift one's eyes from the ground and feel free to stretch out one's hand--not to be obliged to think about spending sixpences, and to have one's mind at liberty for a great many things that I haven't time for here. And Hugh--and aunt Lucy--somehow things seem sad to me--"
Nothing could be more sympathizingly kind than the way in which aunt Miriam brought Fleda closer to her side and wrapped her in her arms.
"I am very foolish--" Fleda whispered,--"I am very wrong--I shall get over it--"
"I am afraid, dear Fleda," Mrs. Plumfield said after a pause,--"it isn't best for us always to be without sad things--though I cannot bear to see your dear little face look sad--but it wouldn't fit us for the work we have to do--it wouldn't fit us to stand where I stand now and look forward happily."
"Where you stand?" said Fleda raising her head.
"Yes, and I would not be without a sorrow I have ever known. They are bitter now, when they are present,--but the sweet fruit comes after."
"But what do you mean by 'where you stand'?"
"On the edge of life."
"You do not think so, aunt Miriam!" Fleda said with a terrified look. "You are not worse?"
"I don't expect ever to be better," said Mrs. Plumfield with a smile. "Nay, my love," she said, as Fleda's head went down on her bosom again,--"not so! I do not wish it either, Fleda. I do not expect to leave you soon, but I would not prolong the time by a day. I would not have spoken of it now if I had recollected myself,--but I am so accustomed to think and speak of it that it came out before I knew it.--My darling child, it is nothing to cry for."