Wreaths of Friendship | Page 3

blow out a
great deal of ill-humor, something after the manner that an overcharged
steam boiler lets off steam--with this difference, however, that the
steam boiler gets cooler by the operation, while the boy or girl gets
more heated. The throat is a poor safety-valve for ill-humor; and it is
bad business, this setting the tongue agoing at such a rate, whenever the
mercury in one's temper begins to rise toward the boiling point.
As is usual, in such cases, Angeline felt worse after these words had

whistled through the escape pipe of her ill-nature, than she did before;
and, for want of something else to do, she commenced crying. She was
not angry--that is, not altogether so--though the spirit she showed was a
pretty good imitation of anger, it must be confessed. She was peevish.
Matters had not gone right with her that day. She was crossed in this
thing and that thing. Her new hat had not come home from the
milliner's, as she expected; one of her frocks had just got badly torn;
she had a hard lesson to learn; and I cannot repeat the whole catalogue
of her miseries. So she fretted, and stormed, and cried, and felt just as
badly as she chose.
Not long after the crying spell was over, and there was a little blue sky
in sight, Jeannette Forrest, a cousin of Angeline's, came running into
the room, her face all lighted up with smiles, and threw her arms
around her cousin's neck, and kissed her. This was no uncommon thing
with Jeannette. She had a very happy and a very affectionate
disposition. Every body loved her, and she loved every body.
One not acquainted with Angeline, might very naturally suppose that
she would return her cousin's embrace. But she did no such thing. Her
manner was quite cool and distant. Human nature is a strange
compound, is it not?
"Why, cousin," said the light-hearted Jeannette, "what is the matter?
You are not well, are you?"
"Yes, well enough," the other replied, rather crustily. Take care,
Angeline, there's a cloud coming over your cousin's face. Speak a kind
word or two, now. Then the sun will beam out again, brightly as ever.
Jeannette was silent for a moment, for she was astonished, and did not
know what to make of her cousin's manner. It would have appeared
uncivil and rude to most little girls. But the sweet spirit of
Jeannette--loving, hoping, trusting--was differently affected. She saw
only the brighter side of the picture. So the bee, as she flies merrily
from flower to flower, finds a store of honey where others would find
only poison.
"Dear Angeline," said her cousin, at length, "I'm sure something is the

matter. Tell me what it is, won't you? Oh, I should love to make you
happy, if I only knew how!"
Angeline seemed scarcely to hear these words of love. That is strange
enough, I hear you say. So it is, perhaps, and it may be stranger still,
that she read not the language of love and sympathy that was written so
plainly in her cousin's countenance. It is true, though, for all that. She
did not say much of any thing to this inquiry--she simply muttered,
between her teeth,
"I don't believe any body loves me."
Jeannette was no philosopher. She could not read essays nor preach
sermons. Her argument to convince her cousin that there was, at least,
one who loved her, was drawn from the heart, rather than from the head.
It was very brief, and very much to the point. She burst into tears, and
sobbed,
"Don't say so, dear."
Jeannette could not stay long. Her mother had sent her on an errand,
and told her she must make haste back. Perhaps it was as well that she
could not stay--and perhaps not. Human nature is a strange sort of
compound, as I said before; and it may be that the ice which had
covered over the streams leading from Angeline's heart would not have
melted under the influence even of the warm sun that, for a moment or
two, beamed upon them so kindly. For one, however, I should like to
know what would have come out of that conversation, if it had been
allowed to go on. Jeannette went home, and Angeline was again left to
her own reflections, which were any thing but pleasant. It was Saturday
afternoon; and, there being no school, she had hoped to be able to
ramble in the woods with some of her little companions. But here she
was disappointed, too, and this increased her peevishness; though the
reason why she could not go was, because she did not learn her lesson
in season, and that was her own fault. Toward night, when Mrs
Standish