This was one of her good days, as she called the days when the
aching weariness of her perpetual confinement was a degree abated, and
she welcomed her visitor with a cry of plaintive joy, kissed her, gazed
at her fondly through glittering tears.
Bessie did not know that she had been loved so much. Girl-like, she had
brought her tribute of flowers to the invalid's room, had wondered at
this half-paralyzed life that was surrounded by such an atmosphere of
peace; and when, during her last visit, she had realized what a
compensation for all sorrow was this peace, she had not yet understood
what an ardor of sympathy kept the poor sufferer's heart warm towards
those whose brighter lot had nothing in common with her own.
"Oh, my love," she said in a sweet, thrilling voice, "dear Harry
Musgrave has been to tell me of his happiness. I am so glad for you
both--so very, very glad!" She did not pause to let Bessie respond, but
ran on with her recollections of Harry since he was a boy and came first
to read with her husband. "His thoughtfulness was really quite
beautiful; he never forgot to be kind. Oh, my dear, you may thoroughly
rely on his fine, affectionate temper. Rarely did he come to a lesson
without bringing me some message from his mother and little present in
his hand--a few flowers, a spring chicken, some nice fruit, a partridge.
This queer rustic scaffold for my books and work, Harry constructed it
himself, and I would not exchange it for the most elegant and ingenious
of whatnots.
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