“What is it?” cried Mrs. Mayo, frightened out of her wits. “A turn? Shall I telephone for the doctor?”
“No,” relied Honora, “but—but I can't talk any more—to-day.”
She apologized on the morrow, as she held Mrs. Mayo's hand. “It—it was your happiness,” she said; “I was unstrung. I couldn't listen to it. Forgive me.”
The little woman burst into tears, and kissed her as she sat in bed.
“Forgive you, deary!” she cried. “I never thought.”
“It has been so easy for you,” Honora faltered.
“Yes, it has. I ought to thank God, and I do—every night.”
She looked long and earnestly, through her tears, at the young lady from the far away East as she lay against the lace pillows, her paleness enhanced by the pink gown, her dark hair in two great braids on her shoulders.
“And to think how pretty you are!” she exclaimed.
It was thus she expressed her opinion of mankind in general, outside of her own family circle. Once she had passionately desired beauty, the high school and the story of Helen of Troy notwithstanding. Now she began to look at it askance, as a fatal gift; and to pity, rather than envy, its possessors.