Molly, with a flounce of resignation, cried out,--
"Well, it's more trouble, of course, but we're getting used to it fast!"
Sara said, rather sharply,--
"Go get the baby, Molly, and be quiet, if you can; and, Morton, help me
gather up the bits." While Morton, who was already down on the floor,
remarked in his slow, thoughtful way,--
"I don't see what we've done, Sara, to have things keep happening so
dreadful, do you?"
Sara did not know. Just then the usual sweetness of her nature seemed
turning to gall. If she could have put her thoughts into words, she
would have said it seemed as if some awful Thing, instead of the God of
love, sat up aloft mocking at her wretchedness; and she felt for the
instant, as she crossed the floor after the old broom, an impotent rage,
almost scorn, of this mighty power which could stoop to deal such
malignant blows against a helpless girl.
It was but a moment,--one of those fierce, instantaneous rebellions of
the natural heart, which overcome us all at times of utter
wretchedness,--then, just as she laid hands on the broom, there came a
cry, a choked, wondering cry from Morton,--"Sara! O Sara!"
She turned; what now?
The boy, in removing the larger fragments of the glass from the boards
at the back of the frame, had come across something slipped in between,
and now held it up with shaking hands and shining eyes.
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