One could not possibly be jealous of
Paula. All that she possessed was ours. Our joys were hers. Our sorrows
were her sorrows. She had grown in body and mind, and yet had kept the same
characteristics. Always bright and happy and full of fun, she had the same
simple, humble ways as when at ten years of age she had come among us. Her
special summer delight was to run through the fields, always returning to
the house with a big bunch of wild flowers for Catalina. In one thing only
she always seemed to fail. Teresa had a fearful task in teaching her to sew
and to knit.
"What are you going to do in the future if you don't know how to do these
things?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Paula would say sadly, and would take up the work
once more with such sweet resignation that Teresa, moved with compassion,
would take the work from her hands saying--"There! There! Run outdoors now
for a bit of fresh air."
Then away Paula would go into the garden or under the trees that lined the
village street. Soon she was back with such a happy smile that Teresa
forgave her completely.
Once however Teresa lost all patience with her, exclaiming, as she saw the
strange ragged ends she had left in her sewing, "Drop that work, and go
where you please; but remember this, never will you be called a 'Dorcas.
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