"Do you know what I am doing now?" She laughed--and none of it had told
as much as that laugh revealed. "I am making patchwork quilts! Can
you fancy anything more worthless in this world than a patchwork
quilt?--cutting things up and then sewing them together again, and making
them uglier in the end than they were in the beginning? Do you know
anything more futile to do with life than that? Well that's where my
life is now. My aunt had begun some, and I am finishing them up. And
once--once--" but the sob in her voice gathered up the words.
He wanted to speak then; that sob brought her nearer. But she went on:
"I sit sewing those little pieces together--a foolish thing to do, but
one must be doing something, and as I think how useless it is there comes
the thought of whether it is any more useless than all the other things
in life. Is it any more useless than surgery? For can a great surgeon
save his best friend? Is it any more useless than science--for can
science do anything for her own? Is it any more useless than ambition and
purpose and hope--for does not fate make sport of them all? Is it any
more useless than books--for can books reach the hearts which need them
most? Is it any more useless than art--for does art reach realities? Is
it any more useless than light--for can light penetrate the real
darkness? Is it,"--she wavered, quivered; she had been talking in low,
quick voice, her eyes fixed on something straight ahead, as though
reading her words out there before her.
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