The girlish warmth of feelings had
given place to a cold worldliness that repelled instead of
attracting her. She had loved, and suffered much; had passed through
many trials, and entered through many opening doors into new
experiences, during the years since their ways parted. And she had
come to this old, dear friend, yearning for that heart
intercourse,--that reading together of some of the pages of their
books of life,--which she felt almost as a necessity. What interest
had she for the mere externals of Mary's life? None! None! And the
constant reference thereto, by her cousin, seemed like a
desecration. Careful and troubled about the little things of life,
she found the dear old friend of her girlish days, to whom she had
come hopefully, as to one who could comprehend, as in earlier years,
the feelings, thoughts, and aspirations which had grown stronger,
deeper, and of wider range.
Alas! Alas! How was the fine gold dimmed in her eyes!
"Dear Mary!" she said to her cousin, on the morning of the day that
was, to end her visit,--they were sitting, together in the little
parlor, and Mrs. Cartwright had referred, for the fortieth time, to
the unshaded windows, and declared herself mortified to death at the
appearance of things,--"Dear Mary! It was to see you, not your
furniture, that I came.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192