CHAPTER XII

A CHEERFUL COMRADE

The more Mary Louise saw of Irene Macfarlane the more she learned to love her.  No one could be miserable or despondent for long in the chair-girl’s society, because she was always so bright and cheery herself.  One forgot to pity her or even to deplore her misfortunes while listening to her merry chatter and frank laughter, for she seemed to find genuine joy and merriment in the simplest incidents of the life about her.

“God has been so good to me, Mary Louise!” she once exclaimed as they were sitting together in the garden.  “He has given me sight, that I may revel in bookland and in the beauties of flowers and trees and shifting skies and the faces of my friends.  He has given me the blessing of hearing, that I may enjoy the strains of sweet music and the songs of the birds and the voices of those I love.  And I can scent the fragrance of the morning air, the perfume of the roses and—­yes! even the beefsteak Aunt Hannah is frying for supper.  The beefsteak tastes as good to me as it does to you.  I can feel the softness of your cheek; I can sing melodies, in my own way, whenever my heart swells with joy.  I can move about, by means of this wonderful chair, without the bother of walking.  You don’t envy me, Mary Louise, because you enjoy almost equal blessings; but you must admit I have reason for being happy.”

Irene read a good many books and magazines and through the daily papers kept well posted on the world’s affairs.  Indeed, she was much better posted than Mary Louise, who, being more active, had less leisure to think and thus absorb the full meaning of all that came to her notice.  Irene would play the piano for hours at a time, though obliged to lean forward in her chair to reach the keys, and her moods ran the gamut from severely classical themes to ragtime, seeming to enjoy all equally.  She also sewed and mended with such consummate skill that Mary Louise, who was rather awkward with her needle, marveled at her talent.

Nor was this the end of the chair-girl’s accomplishments, for Irene had a fancy for sketching and made numerous caricatures of those persons with whom she came in contact.  These contained so much humor that Mary Louise was delighted with them—­especially one of “Uncle Peter” toying with his watch fob and staring straight ahead of him with round, expressionless eyes.

“Really, Irene, I believe you could paint,” she once said.

“No,” answered her friend, “I would not be so wicked as to do that.  All imitations of Nature seem to me a mock of God’s handiwork, which no mortal brush can hope to equal.  I shall never be so audacious, I hope.  But a photograph is a pure reflex of Nature, and my caricatures, which are merely bits of harmless fun, furnish us now and then a spark of humor to make us laugh, and laughter is good for the soul.  I often laugh at my own