Part 53 (1/2)
”And aren't you glad he is safe through it all, and G.o.d his forgiven him?”
”Yes, I'm glad; but I'm sorry he was in that prison.”
”He was happy with you, afterward, you know. He had your mamma and she loved him, and then he had you and you loved him.”
”But I'm sorry.”
”So am I, darling, and so is Uncle John; we are all sorry, but we are glad now because it is all over and he cannot sin any more or suffer any more. I wanted to tell you while you were little, so that somebody would not tell you when you grow up. When you think about him, thank G.o.d that he forgave him,--that is the happy part of it.”
”Why didn't papa tell me?”
”He knew I would tell you some day, if you had to know. I would rather tell you than have any one else in the world tell you.”
”I won't tell anybody, ever. I don't want people to know my papa was in a prison. I asked him once what a prison was like and he would not tell me much.”
She kept her head on Miss Prudence's shoulder and rubbed her fingers over Miss Prudence's hand.
There were no tears in her eyes, Miss Prudence's quiet, hopeful voice had kept the tears from coming. Some day she would understand it, but to-night it was a story that was not very sad, because he had got out of the prison and G.o.d had forgiven him. It would never come as a shock to her; Miss Prudence had saved her that.
XX.
”HEIRS TOGETHER.”
”Oh, for a mind more clear to see, A hand to work more earnestly, For every good intent.”--_Phebe Cary_.
”Aunt Prue,” began Marjorie, ”I can't help thinking about beauty.”
”I don't see why you should, child, when there are so many beautiful things for you to think about.”
It was the morning after Prue had heard the story of her father; it was Sat.u.r.day morning and she was in the kitchen ”helping Deborah bake.”
Mrs. Kemlo was resting in a steamer chair near the register in the back parlor, resting and listening; the listening was in itself a rest. It was a rest not to speak unless she pleased; it was a rest to listen to the low tones of cultured voices, to catch bits of bright talk about things that brought her out of herself; it was a rest, above all, to dwell in a home where G.o.d was in the midst; it was a rest to be free from the care of herself. Was Miss Prudence taking care of her? Was not G.o.d taking care of her through the love of Miss Prudence?
Marjorie was busy about her weekly mending, sitting at one of the front windows. It was pleasant to sit there and see the sleighs pa.s.s and hear the bells jingle; it was pleasant to look over towards the church and the parsonage; and pleasantest of all to bring her eyes into Miss Prudence's face and work basket and the work in her lap for Prue.
”But I mean--faces,” acknowledged Marjorie. ”I mean faces--too. I don't see why, of all the beautiful things G.o.d has made, faces should be ignored. The human face, with the love of G.o.d in it, is more glorious than any painting, more glorious than any view of mountain, lake, or river.”
”I don't believe I know what beauty is.”
”You know what you think it is.”
”Yes; Prue is beautiful to me, and you are, and Linnet, and mother,--you see how confused I am. The girls think so much of it. One of them hurts her feet with three and a half shoes when she ought to wear larger. And another laces so tight! And another thinks so much of being slight and slender that she will not dress warmly enough in the street; she always looks cold and she has a cough, too. And another said she would rather have tubercles on her lungs than sores on her face! We had a talk about personal beauty yesterday and one girl said she would rather have it than anything else in the world. But _do_ you think so much depends upon beauty?”
”How much?”
”Why, ever so much? Friends, and being loved, and marriage.”
”Did you ever see a homely girl with plenty of friends? And are wives always beautiful?”