"My father once made us," she began, "keep a diary, in two columns;
on one side we were to put down in the morning what we thought
would be the course and events of the coming day, and at night we
were to put down on the other side what really had happened. It
would be to some people rather a sad way of telling their lives,"
(a tear dropped upon my hand at these words)--"I don't mean that
mine has been sad, only so very different to what I expected. I
remember, one winter's evening, sitting over our bedroom fire with
Deborah--I remember it as if it were yesterday--and we were
planning our future lives, both of us were planning, though only
she talked about it. She said she should like to marry an
archdeacon, and write his charges; and you know, my dear, she never
was married, and, for aught I know, she never spoke to an unmarried
archdeacon in her life. I never was ambitious, nor could I have
written charges, but I thought I could manage a house (my mother
used to call me her right hand), and I was always so fond of little
children--the shyest babies would stretch out their little arms to
come to me; when I was a girl, I was half my leisure time nursing
in the neighbouring cottages; but I don't know how it was, when I
grew sad and grave--which I did a year or two after this time--the
little things drew back from me, and I am afraid I lost the knack,
though I am just as fond of children as ever, and have a strange
yearning at my heart whenever I see a mother with her baby in her
arms.
Pages:
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194