Her father
had been pastor in a quaint little town of French Switzerland, and
there Marie had been born and had lived until death had taken both
father and mother within a year. Then, heart-broken over her loss,
she had accepted with gratitude an invitation from her aunt, who
had gone to America with her husband when Marie was a little girl.
It was a trial of Ruth's self-control when Marie told so simply
and pathetically of the death of her mother and father, for her own
loss seemed so terribly near. "I've lost my mother, too, Marie,"
she said softly, "and my father has gone so far away that sometimes
I feel quite alone."
"Ah, then you can understand how hard it is to be brave when one
has so great a sorrow."
"Indeed I can. And I'm not always brave. But tell me what happened
to you after you got here."
"Something, my grief, perhaps, or the voyage, made me so seeck.
But it ees much better already, for now I can read a little and
can also sew." As she spoke Marie took from a little bag lying by
her side a piece of embroidery which to Ruth's eyes seemed a marvel
of neatness and beauty.
"Oh, how lovely!" she said admiringly. "How can you do such fine
even work?"
"We are taught to make such fine stitches when we are very little
girls," answered Marie much gratified at the praise.
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