"I? Why, no! Why should I be unhappy?" Her deep eyes were fixed upon
Ruth.
"I--I didn't know," Ruth answered, in confusion.
"I learned long ago," said Miss Ainslie, after a little, "that we may be
happy or not, just as we choose. Happiness is not a circumstance, nor a
set of circumstances; it's only a light, and we may keep it burning if
we will. So many of us are like children, crying for the moon, instead
of playing contentedly with the few toys we have. We're always hoping
for something, and when it does n't come we fret and worry; when
it does, why there's always something else we'd rather have. We
deliberately make nearly all of our unhappiness, with our own
unreasonable discontent, and nothing will ever make us happy, deary,
except the spirit within."
"But, Miss Ainslie," Ruth objected, "do you really think everybody can
be happy?"
"Of course--everybody who wishes to be. Some people are happier when
they're miserable. I don't mean, deary, that it's easy for any of us,
and it's harder for some than for others, all because we never grow
up. We're always children--our playthings are a little different, that's
all."
"'Owning ourselves forever children,' quoted Ruth, "'gathering pebbles
on a boundless shore.'"
"Yes, I was just thinking of that. A little girl breaks her doll, and
though the new one may be much prettier, it never wholly fills the
vacant place, and it's that way with a woman's dream." The sweet voice
sank into a whisper, followed by a lingering sigh.
"Miss Ainslie," said Ruth, after a pause, "did you know my mother?"
"No, I didn't, deary--I'm sorry. I saw her once or twice, but she went
away, soon after we came here."
"Never mind," Ruth said, hurriedly, for Mrs. Thorne's family had never
forgiven her runaway marriage.
"Come into the garden," Miss Ainslie suggested, and Ruth followed
her, willingly, into the cloistered spot where golden lilies tinkled,
thrushes sang, and every leaf breathed peace.
Miss Ainslie gathered a bit of rosemary, crushing it between her white
fingers. "See," she said, "some of us are like that it takes a blow to
find the sweetness in our souls. Some of us need dry, hard places, like
the poppies "--pointing to a mass of brilliant bloom--"and some of us
are always thorny, like the cactus, with only once in a while a rosy
star.
"I've always thought my flowers had souls, dear," she went on; "they
seem like real people to me. I've seen the roses rubbing their cheeks
together as if they loved each other, and the forget-me-nots are little
blue-eyed children, half afraid of the rest.
"Over there, it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman
in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She's one
of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her
sweetness lingers long after she goes away. I gather all the flowers,
and every leaf, though the flowers are sweetest. I put the leaves away
with my linen and the flowers among my laces. I have some beautiful
lace, deary."