end. Nothing else makes me feel the same way—at peace … worthwhile.” Her chin firmed with determination. “I know you don’t understand, but it’s true. Besides, Mr. Tucker is too nosy. He’ll want to know why I have a tablet full of drawings and what I’m doing with them. He’s always asking questions, and I’m convinced he’s attempting to find more material for his book. I, for one, don’t care to be included in his story, and I wish he’d go away and leave us alone.” She averted her eyes, unwilling to reveal the conflicted emotions swirling inside.
Her aunt patted her shoulder. “But dear heart, your peace can’t come solely from your drawings, nor can you find your entire worth there. That must come from God.”
“I’m afraid not, Auntie. It’s not that I don’t care about God, but there is so much I don’t understand, like why God allowed the things in my life, and why I’m so alone now.” She met her aunt’s gaze. “Other than you, of course. I’m sure I have Him to thank for you taking me in, but there are so many other unanswered questions. My peace doesn’t come from God, at least not at this point in my life. It comes from my work.”
Wilma smoothed another of Beth’s curls. “Now, there. I don’t agree, but I hate to see you upset. I won’t speak to Mr. Tucker about your drawings, if you insist.”
Beth plucked at the brightly colored quilt she lay on. “Thank you. But I am worried someone will find my tablet. Or that it will rain, and the pictures will be ruined before I can retrieve it.” Sudden determination pushed her up onto her elbow. “I’ll go get it right now. I can’t take any chances.”
Aunt Wilma gently pressed Beth back against her pillow. “You’ll do no such thing. If it’s going to worry you that much, I’ll find it when we’re finished talking. Tell me where you lost it. I can’t imagine it will be too hard to locate.”
The tension seeped out of Beth’s muscles. “Are you sure? It’s not terribly far from the house, but I hate to ask you to traipse down a dirt path.”
Aunt Wilma fluttered her hand in the air. “Nonsense. I am not a child, nor am I in my dotage.” She leaned over and kissed Beth’s cheek.
Beth nodded but continued to fiddle with the tufts of yarn decorating the squares on the quilt. “But first I have something to discuss.”
Isabelle Mason stared at the journal. It felt like such a waste. All these years, pouring out her heart in the hopes that someone would read them before it was too late. Remorse plagued her, tugging her deeper into the darkness than even the sickness that constantly beset her. Her shoulders slumped, and she laid the pen aside, suddenly too tired to continue.
What had she thought this would accomplish? Her time would be better spent in the garden, when she could muster the energy to pull the ever-encroaching weeds and pour water on the struggling plants. Steven always toted the buckets from the well when he was home, but the barrel standing beside the modest garden plot was nearly empty. She hated asking Ina or her friend Karen to fill it, even though both women were stronger than she.
Why must she always fight against this reoccurring sadness that drained the joy and strength from her body? The constant ravages of the disease that had struck so many years ago had done its share to draw her closer to her eternal reward in heaven.
More and more she longed to leave this life and travel to the next. Only two things pressed her forward and convinced her to fight: Steven and—
Pain knifed through Isabelle’s heart. She couldn’t go there, even in her thoughts. Plucking the pen from its stand and moving the journal into the lantern’s light, she squinted at the next clean page. Time to stop all the foolish pity and do what needed to be done. A record must be kept, and she was the only one who could do it.
Chapter Eight
Wilma’s heart pounded as she looked into her niece’s agitated face.
Her aunt patted her shoulder. “But dear heart, your peace can’t come solely from your drawings, nor can you find your entire worth there. That must come from God.”
“I’m afraid not, Auntie. It’s not that I don’t care about God, but there is so much I don’t understand, like why God allowed the things in my life, and why I’m so alone now.” She met her aunt’s gaze. “Other than you, of course. I’m sure I have Him to thank for you taking me in, but there are so many other unanswered questions. My peace doesn’t come from God, at least not at this point in my life. It comes from my work.”
Wilma smoothed another of Beth’s curls. “Now, there. I don’t agree, but I hate to see you upset. I won’t speak to Mr. Tucker about your drawings, if you insist.”
Beth plucked at the brightly colored quilt she lay on. “Thank you. But I am worried someone will find my tablet. Or that it will rain, and the pictures will be ruined before I can retrieve it.” Sudden determination pushed her up onto her elbow. “I’ll go get it right now. I can’t take any chances.”
Aunt Wilma gently pressed Beth back against her pillow. “You’ll do no such thing. If it’s going to worry you that much, I’ll find it when we’re finished talking. Tell me where you lost it. I can’t imagine it will be too hard to locate.”
The tension seeped out of Beth’s muscles. “Are you sure? It’s not terribly far from the house, but I hate to ask you to traipse down a dirt path.”
Aunt Wilma fluttered her hand in the air. “Nonsense. I am not a child, nor am I in my dotage.” She leaned over and kissed Beth’s cheek.
Beth nodded but continued to fiddle with the tufts of yarn decorating the squares on the quilt. “But first I have something to discuss.”
Isabelle Mason stared at the journal. It felt like such a waste. All these years, pouring out her heart in the hopes that someone would read them before it was too late. Remorse plagued her, tugging her deeper into the darkness than even the sickness that constantly beset her. Her shoulders slumped, and she laid the pen aside, suddenly too tired to continue.
What had she thought this would accomplish? Her time would be better spent in the garden, when she could muster the energy to pull the ever-encroaching weeds and pour water on the struggling plants. Steven always toted the buckets from the well when he was home, but the barrel standing beside the modest garden plot was nearly empty. She hated asking Ina or her friend Karen to fill it, even though both women were stronger than she.
Why must she always fight against this reoccurring sadness that drained the joy and strength from her body? The constant ravages of the disease that had struck so many years ago had done its share to draw her closer to her eternal reward in heaven.
More and more she longed to leave this life and travel to the next. Only two things pressed her forward and convinced her to fight: Steven and—
Pain knifed through Isabelle’s heart. She couldn’t go there, even in her thoughts. Plucking the pen from its stand and moving the journal into the lantern’s light, she squinted at the next clean page. Time to stop all the foolish pity and do what needed to be done. A record must be kept, and she was the only one who could do it.
Chapter Eight
Wilma’s heart pounded as she looked into her niece’s agitated face.
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