Ethel breathed out a tremulous sigh. “You have heard me speak of my cousin, Jennie Buford. She and I are more intimate than most sisters. We have been together almost daily all our lives. She is very ill. We were down to see her yesterday. She had an operation performed at a hospital a week ago, and her condition is quite critical. We would not have come back up here, but no one is allowed to see her, and I could be of no service. I am afraid she is going to die, and if she should—” Ethel's voice clogged, and her eyes filled.
“I'm so sorry,” Paul said, “but you mustn't give up hope.”
“Life seems so cruel—such a great waste of everything that is really worth while,” Ethel said, rebelliously. “Jennie's mother and father are almost crazed with grief. Jennie is engaged to a nice young man down there, and he is prostrated over it. Why, oh why, do such things happen?”
“There is a good reason for everything,” Paul replied, a flare of gentle encouragement in his serious eyes. “Often the things that seem the worst really are the best in the end.”
“There can be nothing good, or kind, or wise in Jennie's suffering,” Ethel declared, her pretty lips hardening, a shudder passing over her. “She is a sweet, good girl, and her parents are devout church members. The young man she is engaged to is the soul of honor, and yet all of us are suffering sheer agony.”
“You must try not to look at it quite that way,” Paul insisted, gently. “You must hope and pray for her recovery.”
Ethel shrugged her shoulders, buried her face in the ferns, and was silent. Presently, looking toward the farm-house, she said: “I see mother waiting for me. Good-by, I'll meet you at luncheon.” She was moving away, but paused and turned back. “You may think me lacking in religious feeling,” she faltered, her glance averted, “but I am very, very unhappy. I am sure the doctors are not telling us everything. I am afraid I'll never see Jennie alive again.”
He heard her sob as she abruptly turned away. He had an impulsive desire to follow and make a further effort to console her, but he felt instinctively that she wanted to be alone. He was sure of this a moment later, for he saw her using her handkerchief freely, and noted that she all but stumbled along the path leading up to the house. Mrs. Mayfield was waiting for her on the veranda, and Paul saw the older lady step down to the ground and hasten to meet her daughter.
“Poor, dear girl!” Paul said to himself, his face raised to the cloud-flecked sky. “Have I passed through my darkness and come out into the light, only to see her entering hers? O merciful God, spare her! spare her!”