She often had days of freedom from suffering,--days when, as she
expressed it, her Father called away His unwelcome messengers. At these
times she would sit in her stuffed chair, or lie on the sofa, and the
family went in and out as they chose. Everybody liked to stay in Emily's
room. Its very atmosphere was elevating.
Then there were collected so many beautiful things,--for these she
craved. "I need them, mother," she would say,--"my soul has need of
them. If there are no flowers, get green leaves, or a picture of Christ,
or of some saint, or little child." And sometimes I would dream, for a
moment, that even I, with all my obtuseness, my earthiness, could have
some faint perception of the way in which, in the midst of suffering,
any form of beauty was a strength and a consolation.
And singularly enough for a sick girl, she liked gold ornaments and
jewels. People used to lend her their chains and bracelets. "I know it
is strange, mother," she said, one day, while holding in her hand a ruby
bracelet,--"strange that I care for them; but they look so strong, so
enduring, so full of life: hang them across the white vase, please; I
love to see them there.
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