Hester, who had
her own share of the same kind of fault, was rather moodily trimming her
mother's bonnet with a new ribbon, glancing up from which she at once
perceived that something in particular must have exceeded in wrongness
the general wrongness of things in the poor little gnome's world. Her
appearance was usually that of one with a headache; her expression this
morning suggested a mild indeed but all-pervading toothache.
"Is anything the matter, Miss Witherspin?" asked Hester.
"Indeed, miss, there never come nothing to sister and me but it's
matter, and now it's a sore matter. But it's the Lord's will and we
can't help it; and what are we here for but to have patience? That's
what I keep saying to my sister, but it don't seem to do her much good."
She ended with a great sigh; and Hester thought if the unseen sister
required the comfort of the one before her, whose evangel just uttered
was as gloomy as herself, how very unhappy she must be.
"No doubt we are here to learn patience," said Hester; "but I can hardly
think patience is what we are made for. Is there any fresh trouble--if
you will excuse me?"
"Well, I don't know, miss, as trouble can anyhow be called
fresh--leastways to us it's stale enough; we're that sick of it! I
declare to you, miss, I'm clean worn out with havin' patience! An' now
there's my sister gone after her husband an' left her girl, brought up
in her own way an' every other luxury, an' there she's come on our
hands, an' us to take the charge of her! It's a responsibility will be
the death of me.
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