Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v108.djvu/133

Rh "May," she said, "you behold in me a new person."

Well, she looked it. Her face was swollen and her nose was red, but somehow there was still a great deal of dignity in her mien. She went right on before I had time to speak.

"I've had a lesson," she said, very solemnly, "and I needed it for my soul's sake. I have gone through fire. These folks are my people; their blood is in me. I am not what I thought I was. I am one of the people. I shall never speak of blood or race again. You girls thought I was a snob. I was, and this is my punishment. I shall take it. I shall stay here this week, and I shall carry out all their plans, and make myself as agreeable as I can to them and to their friends. It's not their fault that they are like this, and—I—I—can't hurt their feelings. I wouldn't for the world. So I'll stay and see this thing through. But I don't expect you to do it; you'd better go home."

Well, I just hugged her, and in that very moment I knew that no other friend in life could ever be to me what Maudie Joyce was. I told her what I thought of her, and she seemed pleased, and I know she was glad when I said I wouldn't leave her for the whole world. And I said I liked her aunt and uncle, and it was true. Then we dressed and went down to breakfast, and it was pretty to see those two old faces shine when we went into the kitchen. We both kissed them good morning—Maudie began it, and I followed the noble girl's beautiful example.

Well, that's all. I suppose I ought to add that we had a dreadful time for a week, and that Maudie had to continue her heroic spiritual struggle. But we didn't. Instead, we had the most beautiful time of our lives. We went sleighing and maple-sugaring, and the neighbors gave parties, and we got to like them a lot—well, I never had such a good time before. Maudie wore the new silk dress once or twice (it was awful!) just because it pleased her uncle and aunt, and when we left them at the end of vacation they cried, and we did too. You see, we got used to the little things they did which seemed strange to us, and we discovered the beautiful natures under their uncouth exteriors, as Maudie said. They were so sweet and gentle and simple and generous,—well, they were just fine. When we left they said they loved me next to Maudie, and I can tell you I was pleased!

Now whenever we girls can steal away for a few days we go to them. Maudie has taken at least eight or ten of the girls there, for the old folks love to have young people around. And in summer it's delightful—with fishing and driving and wood parties, and the beautiful cows standing in the pastures. Once we had them at the convent for a few days—the aunt and uncle, I mean,—and when we did that I knew the last drop of snobbishness had flowed forever out of Maude Joyce's heart. The nuns were lovely to them, and they had a beautiful time. Somehow it brought the tears to my eyes to see the happiness of the dear old people, who had never had children of their own, and who loved the young so much. I call them aunt and uncle, too, just as Maudie does, and they still love me next to her, though they've met so many of the other girls since.

Thus should the heart turn always to those who are most unworthy, regardless of worldly considerations. Maudie says that's the moral of this story.