"But poor Mary! She will grieve," said Frances.
"I think you need waste no tears for her sake," I answered. "She is a
fine, pretty little creature, who will take what comes her way without
excess of pain or joy. She is incapable of feeling keenly. God has been
good to her in giving her numbness."
"No, no, cousin Ned, you are wrong!" she returned. "Life without pain
is not worth living. I have heard that the Arabs have a saying, 'All
sunshine makes the desert.' God is good to us when he darkens the sun
now and then and gives us the sunshine afterwards."
"Perhaps you are right, Frances," I returned. "But you and I are in the
cloud now, and a little sunshine would be most welcome."
"Not enough sunshine to make a desert," she answered.
"Ay! But enough to make a garden," I returned, as we climbed the narrow
flight of steps leading to the private entrance to the Old Swan.
When we paused at the door, Frances said, "Your garden is at hand." And
when she opened the door, there stood Betty, and I was in Eden. The moist
glow of her eyes, the faint blush of her cheeks, the nervous fluttering
of her voice, spoke more eloquently than all the tongues of Babel could
have spoken, and I could not help comparing her welcome with that which
Maxy Hamilton had given me at the queen's ball.
Bettina led us to the parlor, and while we were drinking a cup of tea,
we had the great pleasure of asking and answering questions of which we
always had a large supply in reserve.
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