But it was not all out when she
came, I was still floating around in my own briny drops, so, of course,
she would know the cause of the small rain storm I was drenched in, and I
had to stammer out that--I--hadn't--improved--my time and--I knew she was
ashamed of me--and sorry she--had tried to--make anything out of me. And
then she laughed. You never heard her laugh like that--nor any one else.
I began to laugh as hard as I had been crying. And, after that, we talked
till midnight. She said lovely things. I wish I knew how to write them,
but if you want to hear them just have a crying time and she will say
them all to you. Only you can never get discouraged. She began by asking
somewhat severely: 'Whose life do you want to live?' And I was frightened
and said, 'My own, of course,' that I wouldn't be anybody else for
anything, not even Helen Rheid, or you. And she said that my training had
been the best thing for my own life, that I had fulfilled all her
expectations (not gone beyond them), and she knew just what I could do
and could not do when she brought me here. She had educated me to be a
good wife to Will, and an influence for good in my little sphere in my
down-east home; she knew I would not be anything wonderful, but she had
tried to help me make the most of myself and she was satisfied that I had
done it. I had education enough to know that I am an ignorant thing (she
didn't say _thing_, however), and I had common sense and a loving heart.
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