Ethel Morton at Sweetbriar Lodge Part 10

"She blames herself, because she has learned that giving way to grief paralyzes all the powers that G.o.d has given us to carry on the work of life with. If our minds are filled with gloom our bodies don't behave as they ought to--I dare say even you children know that."

"I know," agreed Ethel Blue, who was sensitive and imaginative and suffered unnecessarily over many things.

"Your mind doesn't go, either," Roger added. "I know when I got in the dumps last spring about graduating I couldn't do a thing. My work went worse than ever. It was only when Mr. Wheeler"--referring to the princ.i.p.al of the high school--"jollied me up and told me I was getting on as well as the rest of the fellows that I took a brace; and you know I did come out all right."

"I should say you did, dear," acknowledged his mother proudly. "Instances like that make you understand how necessary it is to be brave and to be filled with joy because life is going on as well as it is. It is our duty to make the most of everything that is given us--our bodies, our minds, our spirits--and if courage will help or joy will help then we must cultivate courage and joy."

"Did Aunt Louise see that after a while?"

"Not for a long time, she says. After the shock of Uncle Leonard's sudden death had worn away somewhat she began naturally to have a little more courage--not to be so completely crushed as she was at first. Then she saw that when she was feeling brave she could accomplish more, and succeed better in new undertakings. If she went to ask for work somewhere and had no hope that she would receive it she usually did not receive it; but if she went feeling that this day was to be one of success for her it usually was."

"I suppose she went in with a sort 'Of course you'll give it to me' air that made the men she was asking think of 'of course' they would," smiled Roger.

"I don't doubt it. Then she says that she found out that there was real value in laughter."

"In laughter!" repeated Ethel Brown. "Why laughter is just foolishness."

"No, indeed; laughter is the outward expression of delight."

"Lord Chesterfield told his son he hoped he'd never hear him laugh in all his life," offered Roger.

"Lord Chesterfield hated noisy laughter as much as I do. There's nothing more annoying than empty, silly giggling and laughter; but the laughter that means real delight over something worth being delighted at--that's quite another matter. Lord Chesterfield and I are agreed in being opposed to a vulgar _manner_ of laughing, but we are also agreed in believing that delight needs expression. Isn't it in that same letter that he says he hopes he will often see his son smile?"

"Same place," responded Roger briefly.

"Aunt Louise says she found that even if she wasn't feeling really gay she could raise her spirits by doing her best to laugh at something. If you hunt hard enough there is almost always something funny enough to laugh at within reach of you."

"Like d.i.c.ky here snoozing away as soundly as if he were in bed."

"Poor little man. You needn't carry him up yet, though. He's not uncomfortable there."

"There's one thing I think is perfectly wonderful about Aunt Louise,"

said Ethel Blue; "she takes so much pleasure out of little things. She's interested in everything the U. S. C. does, and she wants to help on anything the town undertakes--you know how nice she was about the school gardens--and sometimes when a day comes that seems just stupid with nothing to do at all, if you go over to Aunt Louise's she'll tell you something she's seen or heard that day that you never would have noticed for yourself and that really is interesting."

"She gets their full value out of everything that pa.s.ses before her eyes.

It's the wisest thing to do. The big things of life are more absorbing but very few of us encounter the big things of life. Most of us meet the small matters, the everyday happenings, and nothing else."

"Isn't life full of a mess of 'em!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Roger. "Getting up and dressing and brus.h.i.+ng your hair and eating three meals a day have to be done three hundred sixty-five times a year; whereas you hear some splendid music or come across a fine new poem or find yourself in a position where you can do a real kindness about once in a cat's age.

Queer, isn't it?"

"That's just why it's a good plan to see the opportunities in the little things. If we see with clear eyes we may be able to do some small kindnesses oftener than 'once in a cat's age.' It's certainly true that the everyday troubles, the trifling annoyances, are really harder to bear than the big troubles."

"O-o-o!" disclaimed Helen.

"The big troubles give you a bigger shock, but then you pull yourself together and summon your strength, and strength to endure them comes. But the small matters--they come so often and they seem such pin p.r.i.c.ks that it seems not worth while to call upon your powers of endurance."

"Yet if you don't you're as cross as two sticks all the time," finished Helen. "I know how it is. It's like having a serious wound or a mosquito bite."

They all laughed, for Roger, as if to ill.u.s.trate her remarks, gave a slap at a buzzing enemy at just the appropriate moment.

"Another thing that helps to make Aunt Louise a happy woman now is that she is at peace not only with everybody on earth but also with herself.

If she makes a mistake she doesn't fret about it; she does her best to remedy it, and she does her best not to repeat it. 'Once may be excusable ignorance,' she says, 'but twice is stupidity,' and then she tells the tale of the boy who was walking across a field and fell into a dry well which he knew nothing about. He roared loudly and after a time a farmer heard him and pulled him out. The next day he was walking across the same field and he fell again into the same well."

"He set up the same roar, I suppose."

"A perfect imitation of the previous one. The same farmer came. When he looked down the well and saw the same boy he said disgustedly, 'Yesterday I thought ye were a poor, unknowin' lad; to-day I know ye're a sad fool.'"

Again they all laughed.

"She's always cheerful and always affectionate and she's as dear as she can be and I'm glad she's going to have this lovely house and I wish we had one just like it," cried Helen in a burst.

"We have a good house."

"But it doesn't belong to us."

"We Army and Navy people can't expect to own houses, my child. You don't need to have that told you at this late day."

"I know that. If Father weren't so keen on having us all together while we're being educated we wouldn't have been in Rosemont as long as we have; but I sometimes envy the people who have a home of their own that they are sure to stay in for ever so many years."

"When you feel that way you must think of the many advantages of the Army and Navy children. If your father had not been on the Pacific station when you were the Ethels' age you wouldn't have had a chance to see California when you were old enough to enjoy it and remember it."

"I know, Mother. I didn't mean to growl. I just thought that Father had as much money as Aunt Louise from his father, and he had his salary besides, and yet we haven't a house of our own."

"We've had a good many of Uncle Sam's houses, which is more than your Aunt Louise has had. But you must remember that her inheritance from your Grandfather Morton was acc.u.mulating for many years while her family didn't know where she was, while your father and Ethel Blue's father have been spending the income of theirs all along."

"Uncle Roger has had a lot of children to spend his on, but Father hasn't had any one but me," said Ethel Blue, whose life had been entirely spent with her cousins because her mother had died when she was a tiny baby.

Never before had she thought whether her father, who was a captain in the Army, had any money or not. Now she saw that he must be better provided with it than his brother, her Uncle Roger, the father of Ethel Brown and Helen and Roger and d.i.c.ky, who was a Lieutenant in the Navy.

"Your father is always generous with his money, but I dare say he is saving it for some time when he will want it," suggested Mrs. Morton.

"I don't know when he'll want it any more than he does now," said Ethel Blue.

"Perhaps he'll want to have a house of his own at whatever post he is when he has a grown-up daughter," smiled Helen. "You'd better learn to keep house right off."

The idea thrilled Ethel. Never before had she happened to think of the possibility of joining her father after her school days were over. Never having known any home except with Ethel Brown and her other cousins she had always seen the future as shared with them. The notion of leaving them was painful, but the chance of being always with her father, of being his housekeeper, of seeing him every day, of making him comfortable, was one that filled her with delight. Her blue eyes filled with tenderness as she dreamed over the possibility.

"I have lots to learn yet before I should know enough," she murmured, staring almost unseeingly at her cousin, "but it's wonderful to think I could do it."

The new idea would not leave her mind, though, indeed, she made no effort to drive it out. That the future might hold for her a change so complete was something she wanted to let her thoughts linger on. She hardly noticed that Roger was gathering d.i.c.ky up into his arms to carry him upstairs to bed, or that there was a general stir on the veranda, betokening a move indoors.

"Miss Graham was at Dorothy's this afternoon," Ethel Brown said as she rose and picked up the straw cus.h.i.+on on which she had been sitting.

"Was she?" inquired Helen interestedly. "I wish I had seen her. I never have yet, you know."

"Neither has Ethel Blue. She and Aunt Louise and Dorothy and I went over to the new house and looked at the attic. She says she'll come over next week and help us about the bedroom floor. That will be ready then for us to talk about the decorating."

"Be sure and let me know when she is coming. What did she say about the attic?"