Why, one
person in the world, one single person belonging to one, of one's very
own, to talk to, to take care of, to love, to be interested in, was
worth more than all the speeches on platforms and the compliments of
chairmen in the world. It was also worth more--Rose couldn't help it,
the thought would come--than all the prayers.
These thoughts were not head thoughts, like Scrap's, who was
altogether free from yearnings, but bosom thoughts. They lodged in the
bosom; it was in the bosom that Rose ached, and felt so dreadfully
lonely. And when her courage failed her, as it did on most days, and
it seemed impossible to write to Frederick, she would look at Mr.
Wilkins and revive.
There he was, a changed man. There he was, going into that small,
uncomfortable room every night, that room whose proximities had
been Lotty's only misgiving, and coming out of it in the morning, and
Lotty coming out of it too, both of them as unclouded and as nice to
each other as when they went in. And hadn't he, so critical at home,
Lotty had told her, of the least thing going wrong, emerged from the
bath catastrophe as untouched in spirit as Shadrach, Meshach and
Abednego were untouched in body when they emerged from the fire?
Miracles were happening in this place. If they could happen to Mr.
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