"Mary Martha Cary, don't ever say again there's no such things as modern
miracles. There's been a miracle to-day, and you have seen it. Somebody
has been born over." And then, because I couldn't help it, I cried
almost as bad as Miss Bray.

But, oh, nobody can ever know how much harm it had done me to believe a
lady could go through life telling stories, and doing mean,
dishonorable things, and not minding. And people treating her just the
same as if she were honest!

When I found out it wasn't so--that your sin did make you suffer, and
that it did make a difference trying to do right--I felt some of my old
Martha-ry scornfulness slipping away. And I got down on my knees, no
words, but God understanding why.

I don't like any kind of bitterness in my heart. I'd rather like people.
But can you like a deceiver? You can't.

Dr. Parke Alden has taken no more notice of me than if I were a
Juney-bug.

I wonder if Miss Katherine will ever marry. She wasn't meant to live in
an Orphan Asylum. She was meant to be the Lady of the House, and to wear
beautiful clothes, and have horses and carriages and children of her
own, and to give orders. Instead of that, she is here; but sometimes she
has a look on her face which I call "Waiting." Last week I wrote a poem
about it. This is it:

"In the winter, by the fireside, when the snow falls soft and white,
I am waiting, hoping, longing, but for what I don't know quite.