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over it.” She hid her face in the bedclothes and sobbed:
“Oh, no, no, no, my own dear Lorens—I’d be so true
to you, if the Lord would only bring you back to me safe
and sound! Oh, Miss, I can’t bear it!”
Marie tried to soothe her with words and caresses, and at
last she succeeded in making Lucie sit up and wipe her eyes.
“Indeed, Miss,” she said, “no one knows how miserable
I am. You see, I can’t possibly behave as I should all
the time. ’T is no use I resolve to set no store by the young
men. When they begin jesting and passing compliments,
my tongue’s got an itch to answer them back, and then
’t is true more foolery comes of it than I could answer for
to Lorens. But when I think of the danger he’s in, oh,
then I’m more sorry than any living soul can think. For I
love him, Miss, and no one else, upon my soul I do. And
when I ’m in bed, with the moon shining straight in on the
floor, I ’m like another woman, and everything seems so
sad, and I weep and weep, and something gets me by the
throat till I ’m like to choke—it ’s terrible! Then I keep
tossing in my bed and praying to God, though I scarce
know what I ’m praying for. Sometimes I sit up in bed
and catch hold of my head and it seems as if I ’d lose my
wits with longing. Why, goodness me, Miss, you ’re
crying! Sure you ’re not longing for any one in secret—and
you so young?”
Marie blushed and smiled faintly. There was something
flattering in the idea that she might be pining for a lover.
“No, no,” she said, “but what you say is so sad. You
make it seem as if there’s naught but misery and trouble.”
“Bless me, no, there’s a little of other things too,” said
Lucie, rising in answer to a summons from below, and
nodding archly to Marie, as she went.
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