"Mamma! - nobody ever accused Dr. Sandford before of being a
fool."
"He is a fool to look at you. Do get a little wisdom into his
head, Daisy!" And she left the room again as the doctor
entered the house.
I knew he and I understood each other; and though he might be
a fool after mamma's reckoning, I had a great kindness for
him. So I met him with frank kindness now. The doctor walked
about the room a while, talking of indifferent things; and
then said suddenly, "Do you remember old Molly Skelton?"
"Certainly. What of her?"
"She is dying, poor creature."
"Does she know I am here?" I asked.
"I have not told her."
"Would she like to see me, do you think?" I said, with an
uneasy consciousness that I must go, whatever the answer were.
"If she can recognise you-I presume there is nobody else she
would so like to see. As in reason there ought not."
"Can you take me there, Dr. Sandford?"
"Not at this hour; I am going another way. This afternoon I
will take you, if you will go. Will you go?"
"If you will be so good as to take me."
"I will come for you then at four o'clock."
That ride I have reason to remember. It was a fair June
afternoon, though the month was almost out now; the peculiar
brilliance which distinguishes June shone through the air and
sparkled on the hills. With clear bright outlines the Catskill
range stretched away right and left before us, whenever our
road brought us in view of it; fulness of light on the sunny
slopes, soft depth of shadow on the others, proclaiming the
clear purity of the atmosphere. The blue of the sky, the fresh
sweetness of the air, the life of colour in the fields and
trees, all I suppose made their appeal at the doors of my
heart; for I felt the pressure. It is the life in this June
weather, I think, that reproaches what in us is not life; and
my spirit was dead. Not really, but practically; and the June
beauty gave me pain. I was out of harmony with it. And I heard
nature's soft whisper of reproof. Justly given; for when one
is out of harmony with nature, there is sure to be some want
of harmony with the Author of nature. The doctor drove me
silently, letting nature and me have it out together; till we
came to the old cottage of Molly Skelton, and he handed me
from the curricle. Still the doctor was silent.
He stopped, purposely I think, to speak to his groom; and I
went in first. The rows of flowers by the side of the walk
were tangled and overgrown and a thicket of weeds; no care had
visited them for many a day; but they were there yet. Molly
had not forgotten her old tastes. I went on, wondering at
myself, and entered the cottage. The sick woman lay on the bed
there, alone and seemingly asleep; I turned from her to look
at the room. The same old room; little different from what it
used to be; even two pots with geraniums in them stood on the
window-sill, drooping their heads for want of water. Nobody
had watered them for so long. Clearly Molly had not changed.
Was it only I? I looked and wondered, as I saw myself again at
ten years old in that very room. Here had been those first
cups of tea; those first lessons in A B C; and other lessons
in the beginnings of a higher knowledge. What had they all
come to? Was Molly the better in anything beyond her flowers?
What had eleven years wrought for her?