I gave it up, but I said to myself, "Fate, in the next world make me
one of those long, lithe, light-haired women, will you? I want to see
how it feels."
Felipa's foot was well again, and spring had come. Soon we must leave
our lodge on the edge of the pine barren, our outlook over the salt
marsh, our river sweeping up twice a day, bringing in the briny odors of
the ocean: soon we should see no more the eagles far above us or hear
the night-cry of the great owls, and we must go without the little fairy
flowers of the barren, so small that a hundred of them scarcely made a
tangible bouquet, yet what beauty! what sweetness! In my portfolio were
sketches and studies of the barrens, and in my heart were hopes.
Somebody says somewhere, "Hope is more than a blessing: it is a duty and
a virtue." But I fail to appreciate preserved hope--hope put up in cans
and served out in seasons of depression. I like it fresh from the tree.
And so when I hope it _is_ hope, and not that well-dried, monotonous
cheerfulness which makes one long to throw the persistent smilers out of
the window. Felipa danced no more on the barrens; her illness had toned
her excitable nature; she seemed content to sit at our feet while we
talked, looking up dreamily into our faces, but no longer eagerly
endeavoring to comprehend. We were there: that was enough.
"She is growing like a reed," I said: "her illness has left her weak."
"-Minded," suggested Christine, smiling.
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