God's kings and priests are crowned with
thorns, walking the earth with bleeding feet, and comprehending not the
work they are performing.
Mary took from a drawer a small pocket-book, from which dropped a lock
of black hair,--a glossy curl, which seemed to have a sort of wicked,
wilful life in every shining ring, just as she had often seen it shake
naughtily on the owner's head. She felt a strange tenderness towards
the little wilful thing, and, as she leaned over it, made in her heart
a thousand fond apologies for every fault and error.
She was standing thus when Mrs. Scudder entered the room to see if her
daughter had yet retired.
"What are you doing there, Mary?" she said, as her eye fell on the
letter. "What is it you are reading?"
Mary felt herself grow pale; it was the first time in her whole life
that her mother had asked her a question that she was not from the
heart ready to answer. Her loyalty to her only parent had gone on
even-handed with that she gave to her God; she felt, somehow, that the
revelations of that afternoon had opened a gulf between them, and the
consciousness overpowered her.
Mrs. Scudder was astonished at her evident embarrassment, her
trembling, and paleness.
Pages:
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330