"How unkind of you, the only human being in this
place who can talk, to come here all by yourself! What do you
think was to become of me?"
"I thought you were reading to mamma," said Lillian, quietly.
"Reading!" exclaimed Beatrice. "You know I am tired of reading,
tired of writing, tired of sewing, tired of everything I have to
do."
Lillian looked up in wonder at the beautiful, restless face.
"Do not look 'good' at me," said Beatrice, impatiently. "I am
tired to death of it all. I want some change. Do you think any
girls in the world lead such lives as we do--shut up in a
rambling old farm house, studying from morn to night; shut in on
one side by that tiresome sea, imprisoned on the other by fields
and woods? How can you take it so quietly, Lillian? I am
wearied to death."
"Something has disturbed you this morning," said Lillian, gently.
"That is like mamma," cried Beatrice; "just her very tone and
words. She does not understand, you do not understand; mamma's
life satisfies her, your life contents you; mine does not content
me--it is all vague and empty. I should welcome anything that
changed this monotony; even sorrow would be better than this dead
level--one day so like another, I can never distinguish them.
Pages:
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206