“She is certainly a delightful woman,” thought Alice, as, after a long chat, she tripped blithely up to her chamber.
As she opened the door, she discovered Clara thrown upon the bed, her face hidden in the pillows, sobbing aloud. She hesitated a moment, then going up to her, said entreatingly—
“Don’t, dear Clara, cry so!”
But her only answer was a fresh burst of tears. So she sat down on the bed-side and took her mother’s miniature, which Clara clasped between her hands. It was a picture of rare beauty, as well might be that of a faultless form, in the first pride of womanhood, glowing with life and love. Alice gazed on it with mournful fondness, and kissed its small, sweet face many times.
“Oh, I am wretched, wretched!” moaned Clara; “the happiness of my life is gone forever.”
Alice took her hand in hers, and said softly—
“You know we thought, when mother died, we could never cease to weep, we could not live at all. Yet we have been even happy since that, though we love her and think of her just as much as ever. Indeed, I believe I love her more and more. I think we shall be happy still.”
“Happy! with this strange woman thrust upon me, every day, in my mother’s stead? I tell you, Alice, it will never, never be. I cannot say but you may enjoy life as well as ever, but not I. I do not want to be happy—I will not be happy with a step-mother. Oh, the odious name!”
In her excitement she rose from the bed and paced the floor.
“You can, undoubtedly, be as unhappy as you choose, and you can hate father’s wife if you want to; but I think it would be a great deal easier to love her,” said Alice. “I am sure, if our own blessed mother could speak to us, she would bid us treat her very kindly and try to make her happy with us.”