I saw it the other day in the face of a little old lady, who lived
in the house of a well-to-do cousin, with rather a bustling and
vigorous family pervading the place. She was a small frail
creature, with a tired worn face, but with no look of fretfulness
or discontent. She had a little attic as a bedroom, and she was not
considered in any way. She effaced herself, ate about as much as a
bird would eat, seldom spoke, uttering little ejaculations of
surprise and amusement at what was said; if there was a place
vacant in the carriage, she drove out. If there was not, she
stopped at home. She amused herself by going about in the village,
talking to the old women and the children, who half loved and half
despised her for being so very unimportant, and for having nothing
she could give away. But I do not think the little lady ever had a
thought except of gratitude for her blessings, and admiration for
the robustness and efficiency of her relations. She claimed nothing
from life and expected nothing. It seemed a little frail and
vanquished existence, and there was not an atom of what is called
proper pride about her; but it was fine, for all that! An infinite
sweetness looked out of her eyes; she suffered a good deal, but
never complained.
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