A Modern Cinderella; Or, The Little Old Shoe, and Other StoriesAlcott, Louisa May
General
A Modern Cinderella; Or, The Little Old Shoe, and Other Stories
Alcott, Louisa May
Fiction; Short stories
With one impulse, Di and Laura fled to Nan, and the sisters clung
together in a silent embrace, more eloquent than words. John took his
mother by the hand, and led her from the room, closing the door upon
the sacredness of grief.
"Yes, we are poorer than we thought; but when everything is settled, we
shall get on very well. We can let a part of this great house, and
live quietly together until spring; then Laura will be married, and Di
can go on their travels with them, as Philip wishes her to do. We
shall be cared for; so never fear for us, John."
Nan said this, as her friend parted from her a week later, after the
saddest holiday he had ever known.
"And what becomes of you, Nan?" he asked, watching the patient eyes
that smiled when others would have wept.
"I shall stay in the dear old house; for no other place would seem like
home to me. I shall find some little child to love and care for, and
be quite happy till the girls come back and want me."
John nodded wisely, as he listened, and went away prophesying within
himself,--
"She shall find something more than a child to love; and, God willing,
shall be very happy till the girls come home and--cannot have her."
Nan's plan was carried into effect. Slowly the divided waters closed
again, and the three fell back into their old life. But the touch of
sorrow drew them closer; and, though invisible, a beloved presence
still moved among them, a familiar voice still spoke to them in the
silence of their softened hearts. Thus the soil was made ready, and in
the depth of winter the good seed was sown, was watered with many
tears, and soon sprang up green with a promise of a harvest for their
after years.
Di and Laura consoled themselves with their favorite employments,
unconscious that Nan was growing paler, thinner, and more silent, as
the weeks went by, till one day she dropped quietly before them, and it
suddenly became manifest that she was utterly worn out with many cares
and the secret suffering of a tender heart bereft of the paternal love
which had been its strength and stay.
"I'm only tired, dear girls. Don't be troubled, for I shall be up
to-morrow," she said cheerily, as she looked into the anxious faces
bending over her.
But the weariness was of many months' growth, and it was weeks before
that "to-morrow" came.
Laura installed herself as nurse, and her devotion was repaid
four-fold; for, sitting at her sister's bedside, she learned a finer
art than that she had left. Her eye grew clear to see the beauty of a
self-denying life, and in the depths of Nan's meek nature she found the
strong, sweet virtues that made her what she was.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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