Lesbia had been
the peach on the sunny southern wall, ripening and reddening in a flood
of sunshine; Mary had been the stunted fruit growing in a north-east
corner, hidden among leaves, blown upon by cold winds green and hard and
sour for lack of the warm bright light. And now Mary felt the sunshine,
and grew glad and gay in those glowing beams.
'Dear grandmother, I believe you are beginning to love me,' she said,
bending over to arrange the invalid's pillows in the July morning, the
fresh mountain air blowing in upon old and young from the great open
window, like a caress.
'I am beginning to know you,' answered Lady Maulevrier, gently.
'I think it is the magic of love, Mary, that has sweetened and softened
your nature, and endeared you to me. I think you have grown ever so much
sweeter a girl since your engagement. Or it may be that you were the
same always, and it was I who was blind. Lesbia was all in all to me.
All in all--and now I am nothing to her,' she murmured, to herself
rather than to Mary.
'I am so proud to think that you see an improvement in me since my
engagement,' said Mary, modestly.
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