Page:The Star in the Window.pdf/23



HE walked slowly upstairs to her room. There was in her eyes somewhat the same acceptance-of-the-inevitable look as in a dog's trained obedience from puppyhood. She was as dumb and undemonstrative about it too. Even safely within her room, with the door closed, there was no gesture of impatience, no tears, no throwing herself down upon the bed—nothing of that sort. She simply sat down in another rocking-chair, by another window, and gazed out at another winter landscape.

Her bedroom was furnished in the brown-grained furniture of her young girlhood. There were pink rosebuds painted on each of the bureau drawers, and more rosebuds on the head of the bed. As Reba sat there, in the small square space allotted to her before she was born, her tortured spirit rocked back and forth on the little swinging perch inside her cage, as it had done so many times before, seeking relief. She mustn't mind, she mustn't care, silently she told herself. What difference did it make what she did—whether she went out, or stayed in, whether her wishes or her mother's and aunts' were gratified—what difference in the long run? What if she had never known, and now never would know, the heart-thrills, and the heartaches of youth? What if life was monotonous and humdrum? All that was no concern of hers. Her great task was self-mastery. Nothing else. The more hopes blasted, the more pleasures denied,