Volume I Part 64 (2/2)

”I can't see thee do so, my child ? my dear child! Hope for brighter days, dear Fleda.”

”I could bear it,” said Fleda, after a little interval, ”if it wasn't for aunt Lucy and Hugh ? oh, that is the worst!”

”What about Hugh?” said aunt Miriam, soothingly.

”Oh, he does what he ought not to do, aunt Miriam, and there is no help for it ? and he did last summer, when we wanted men; and in the hot haying-time he used to work, I know, beyond his strength, and aunt Lucy and I did not know what to do with ourselves.”

Fleda's head, which had been raised, sunk again and more heavily.

”Where was his father?” said Mrs. Plumfield.

”Oh, he was in the house ? he didn't know it ? he didn't think about it.”

”Didn't think about it?”

”No ? oh, he didn't think Hugh was hurting himself, but he was; he showed it for weeks afterward. I have said what I ought not now,” said Fleda, looking up, and seeming to check her tears, and the spring of them at once.

”So much security any woman has in a man without religion,”

said aunt Miriam, going back to her work. Fleda would have said something if she could; she was silent; she stood looking into the fire, while the tears seemed to come as it were by stealth, and ran down her face unregarded.

”Is Hugh not well?”

”I don't know,” said Fleda, faintly; ”he is not ill, but he never was very strong, and he exposes himself now, I know, in a way he ought not. I am sorry I have just come and troubled you with all this now, aunt Miriam,” she said, after a little pause; ”I shall feel better by and by ? I don't very often get such a fit.”

”My dear little Fleda!” ? and there was unspeakable tenderness in the old lady's voice, as she came up, and drew Fleda's head again to rest upon her ? ”I would not let a rough wind touch thee if I had the holding of it. But we may be glad the arranging of things is not in my hand ? I should be a poor friend after all, for I do not know what is best. Canst thou trust Him who does know, my child?”

”I do, aunt Miriam ? oh, I do,” said Fleda, burying her face in her bosom ? ”I don't often feel so as I did to-day.”

”There comes not a cloud that its shadow is not wanted,” said aunt Miriam. ”I cannot see why, but it is that thou mayest bloom the brighter, my dear one.”

”I know it” ? Fleda's words were hardly audible ? ”I will try.” ?

”Remember his own message to every one under a cloud ? 'Cast all thy care upon him, for he careth for thee;' ? thou mayest keep none of it; and then the peace that pa.s.seth understanding shall keep thee. ? 'So he giveth his beloved sleep.' ”

Fleda wept for a minute on the old lady's neck, and then she looked up, dried her tears, and sat down with a face greatly quieted and lightened of its burden, while aunt Miriam once more went back to her work. The one wrought and the other looked on in silence.

The cruller were all done at last ? the great bread-trough was filled and set away ? the remnant of the fat was carefully disposed of, and aunt Miriam's handmaid was called in to ”take the watch.” She herself and her visitor adjourned to the sitting-room.

”Well,” said Fleda., in a tone again steady and clear, ”I must go home to see about getting up a dinner. I am the greatest hand at making something out of nothing, aunt Miriam, that ever you saw. There is nothing like practice. I only wish the man uncle Orrin talks about would come along once in a while.”

”Who was that?” said aunt Miriam.

”A man that used to go about from house to house,” said Fleda, laughing, ”when the cottagers were making soup, with a ham- bone to give it a relish, and he used to charge them so much for a dip, and so much for a wallop.”

”Come, come, I can do as much for you as that,” said aunt Miriam, proceeding to her store pantry ? ”see here ? wouldn't this be as good as a ham-bone?” said she, bringing out of it a fat fowl; ”how would a wallop of this do?”

”Admirably! ? only ? the ham-bone used to come out again, and I am confident this never would.”

<script>