Rhoda's Education by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

FOR many days Rhoda was very ill with a kind of nervous fever, and for many more she lay in her pleasant little room, weak and languid, and so thoroughly depressed that her friends began to fear for her mind. She had every care and kindness, for every one in the house knew her story and felt interested in her, and even Aunty Parsons, who generally resented whatever was done for anybody else as so much taken from herself, expressed the opinion that that girl wasn't half taken care of, and ought to have some real good whisky with cherry bark in it, that being a cordial to which the old lady was much addicted.

A few days after Mr. Bowers left Rhoda at "The Home," he sent her by express a box containing all the books and other possessions she had left behind her at Boonville, together with an envelope containing ten dollars, but not a word of a letter.

Rhoda never asked for news from her former home-never alluded to her adopted parents in any way. She lay quite still, with her eyes closed or gazing out of the window opposite her bed, giving very little trouble and never speaking except when spoken to. All the lady managers had been to see her; and if there were anything in the old sign, Mr. Bowers's left ear must have rung like a chime of bells at the opinions expressed of his conduct.

Rhoda had been at "The Home" about three weeks when she had one day a new visitor. Mrs. Worthington was one of the most active managers of "The Home," but she had been out of town for some time, and this was her first visit to the institution since her return. Of course she heard the whole story over in every room she visited.

"The doctor says she ain't no disease now," remarked Mrs. Josleyn, "but yet she don't seem to get no strength."

"No, and she won't so long as she is coddled up so," said Aunty Parsons, who had grown tired of sympathizing with Rhoda. "She ought to have some real good whisky with cherry bark in it, and be made to get up and exercise, and go out in the fresh air. What's the sense of her lying there when she hain't no disease?"

"It's just the trouble on her mind, you see," said Mrs. Josleyn, who was as sweet as her neighbour was sour. "She's had such trials, poor dear!"

"Her trials ain't nothing to mine," grumbled Mrs. Parsons; "nobody never went and signed away all her property. But if I was ever so much overcome by my troubles, you wouldn't catch Miss Carpenter making no chicken broth for me."

Mrs. Worthington smiled, but made no reply, well knowing from experience that there was no use in it. Mrs. Parsons was one of those people whom one finds it hard to think of as being happy in heaven, since there will be nothing in that locality for them to find fault with.

"In what room is this poor child? " Mrs. Worthington asked.

"She's in twenty-eight-the very room I always wanted; but of course they never would put me in there."

"Because they keep it for sick folks," Mrs. Josleyn.

"Well, and ain't I sick? Have I ever had a well day since I came into this house? But anything is good enough for me."

Mrs. Lambert, the nurse, an experienced and kind-hearted person, confirmed Mrs. Josleyn's opinion:

"Dr. H. says she hain't any disease, and I do really think she would be better for making a little effort, but I don't like to urge her, poor thing! If we could only find something to interest her!"

"Yes, that would be best. I think I will go in and see her."

Rhoda lay on the bed, as she had done for the last three weeks, and turned her eyes listlessly to the door as Mrs. Worthington entered, but they brightened a little as they rested on the visitor's face.

"Ah, little Rhoda! " said Mrs. Worthington, coming to the side of the bed and kissing her. "I think you remember me, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Rhoda; "I remember you very well. When we had the measles in the house, just a little while before I went away, you took me over to your house, and let me stay two or three days. I remember how we played under the big tree in the back yard-Cathy and Rosy and I-and how the boys let out their rabbits. I suppose Cathy and Rosy are grown-up young ladies now."

And then, catching Mrs. Lambert's warning glance, she faltered, and said, "Oh, I am so sorry!"