Now she began to amuse herself by asking the lad in what age he would like to have lived, and was pleased that he chose the reign of Elizabeth. Then at last she talked about Dorothy, and of her life, its hardships, trials, and contentments with what she had, and, finally, of the woman’s interest in “Macbeth” and her own curiosity as to this. She had the art of interesting the young in matters usually thought to be out of their sphere of comprehension.
As she sat, Ned, who was quick to see, noticed that she became of a sudden silent, and, looking up, saw that her face was distorted for a moment, and that she had one hand pressed against her side. He rose, saying:
“Nothing. Nothing much. I very often have pain, and sometimes it beats me.”
“No, dear. It will be better presently. It is better now,” and she wiped her brow.
“To keep them from eating green apples a second time.”
“That’s so, aunty; but you—why do you have pain?”
“Perhaps because my great-grandpapa would eat green apples. ‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’”
“No! That is an enigma for more than you. I do not know why I have pain. Having it, I know what to do with it. I don’t know why Christ had pain. God might have willed to help us in other ways, but at least I know what to do with the story of that anguish. If he was, as we think, a perfect man, Ned, he must have suffered as only a man who was also more than man could suffer. As he chose his pain to be, and taught men how to use it, so must I in my small way.”
“And wouldn’t you choose, aunty, just to have no pain, if you could?”
“Get thee behind me, little Satan,” she laughed. “If I could make a world without pain, would I choose? I don’t know. My pain has been a bitter friend. Come,” and she rose. The boy, whose thoughts and questions were beyond his years, walked on in silence, now and then glancing at the woman’s face.
“Does no one know, Aunt Anne, why we must have pain?”
“Only one man knew, Ned, and he suffered and was silent.”
“Perhaps it only seems: best to think that.”
At the cabin-door Dorothy came out smiling, the little, red pocket-copy of “Macbeth” in her hand.
“Now this is right good of you, Miss Anne,” she said. “Come in. Mrs. Lyndsay was telling me last week you like a cup of tea about sundown. It’s a bit early, but you might be tired. I’ve got the tea Mrs. Lyndsay sent me last year.”