"He is in the garden walking up and down," said Rose. "May I go and tell
him how much merrier you always are than Aunt Ailie?"
Poor Ermine felt anything but merry just then, but she had some
experience of Rose's powers of soothing, and signed assent. So in
another second Colonel Keith was met in the hasty, agonized walk by
which he was endeavouring to work off his agitation, and the slender
child looked wistfully up at him from dark depths of half understanding
eyes--"Please, please don't be so very sorry," she said. "Aunt Ermine
does not like it. She never is sorry for herself--"
"Have I shaken her--distressed her?" he asked, anxiously.
"She doesn't like you to be sorry," said Rose, looking up. "And, indeed,
she does not mind it; she is such a merry aunt! Please, come in again,
and see how happy we always are--"
The last words were spoken so near the window that Ermine caught them,
and said, "Yes, come in, Colin, and learn not to grieve for me, or you
will make me repent of my selfish gladness yesterday."
"Not grieve!" he exclaimed, "when I think of the beautiful vigorous
being that used to be the life of the place--" and he would have said
more but for a deprecating sign of the hand.
"Well," she said, half smiling, "it is a pity to think even of a crushed
butterfly; but indeed, Colin, if you can bear to listen to me, I think I
can show you that it all has been a blessing even by sight, as well
as, of course, by faith. Only remember the unsatisfactoriness of our
condition--the never seeing or hearing from one another after that day
when Mr. Beauchamp came down on us. Did not the accident win for us a
parting that was much better to remember than that state of things? Oh,
the pining, weary feel as if all the world had closed on me! I do assure
you it was much worse than anything that came after the burn. Yes, if
I had been well and doing like others, I know I should have fretted and
wearied, pined myself ill perhaps, whereas I could always tell myself
that every year of your absence might be a step towards your finding me
well; and when I was forced to give up that hope for myself, why then,
Colin, the never seeing your name made me think you would never be
disappointed and grieved as you are now. It is very merciful the way
that physical trials help one through those of the mind."
"I never knew," said the Colonel; "all my aunt's latter letters spoke of
your slow improvement beyond hope."
"True, in her time, I had not reached the point where I stopped. The
last time I saw her I was still upstairs; and, indeed, I did not half
know what I could do till I tried."