“Good-morning, dear,” she said.

A shock of any kind has the quality of mercy in that it benumbs as to pain.  Maria’s only realization was that something monstrous had happened, something like mutilation, but there was no sting of agony.  She entered the school-house and went about her duties as usual.  The children realized no difference in her, but all the time she realized the difference in herself.  Something had gone from her, some essential part which she could never recover, not in itself, no matter what her future life might be.  She was shorn of her first love, and that which has been never can be again.

When Maria reached the bridge on her way home, there was Lily waiting for her, as she had half expected she would be.

“Maria, dear,” said Lily, with a pretty gesture of pleading, “I had to come and meet you, because I am so happy, and nobody else knows, except mother, and, somehow, her being pleased doesn’t please me.  I suppose I am wicked, but it makes me angry.  I know it is awful to say such a thing of my own mother, but I can’t help feeling that she thinks now she can have my room for Mabel Ellridge, and won’t have to give up the spare chamber.  I have nobody to talk to but you, Maria.  George won’t come over before evening, and I am scared to go in and see his mother.  I am so afraid she won’t like me.  Do you think she will like me, Maria dear?”

“I don’t see why she should not,” replied Maria.  Lily had hold of her arm and was nestling close to her.

“Don’t you, honest?”

“No, dear.  I said so.”

“You don’t mind my coming to meet you and talk it over, do you, Maria?”

“Of course I don’t!  Why should I?” asked Maria, almost angrily.

“I thought you wouldn’t.  Maria, do you think a blue tea-gown or a pink one would be prettier?”

“I think pink is your color,” said Maria.

“Well, I rather like the idea of pink myself.  Mother says I shall have enough money to get some nice things.  I suppose it is very silly, but I always thought that one of the pleasantest things about getting married, must be having some pretty, new clothes.  Do you think I am very silly, Maria?”

“I dare say most girls feel so,” said Maria, patiently.

As she spoke she looked away from the other girl at the wintry landscape.  There was to the eastward of Amity a low range of hills, hardly mountains.  These were snow-covered, and beneath the light of the setting sun gave out wonderful hues and lights of rose and blue and pearl.  It was to Maria as if she herself, being immeasurably taller than Lily and the other girls whom she typified, could see farther and higher, even to her own agony of mind.  It is a great deal for a small nature to be pleased with the small things of life.  A large nature may miss a good deal in not being pleased with them.  Maria realized that she herself, in Lily’s place, could have no grasp of mind petty enough for pink and blue tea-gowns, that she had outgrown that stage of her existence.  She still liked pretty things, but they had now become dwarfed by her emotions, whereas, in the case of the other girl, the danger was that the emotions themselves should become dwarfed.  Lily was typical, and there is after all a certain security as to peace and comfort in being one of a kind, and not isolated.