Chapter Two.
The colporteur.
The cows had not passed the gate. Somebody had opened it for them, and they were now standing or lying in the yard, in the very perfection of animal enjoyment. The girls were not at home to milk them, however. Christie had heard her father’s voice calling to them in the lower field, and she knew it would be full half an hour, and quite dark, before they could be at home. So, with a sigh, she took the stool and the milk-pails from a bench near the door, and went to the yard to her task.
If her short-sighted eyes had seen the long, low wagon that stood at the end of the house, curiosity would have tempted her to go back to see who might be there. If she had known that in that wagon her sister Effie had ridden home a day sooner than she was expected, she would not have seated herself so quietly to her milking.
(Note: In America, any light four-wheeled vehicle is called a wagon.)
Christie was not lazy, though her aunt sometimes accused her of being so. When her heart was in her work, she could do it quickly and well; and her strength failed her always before her patience was exhausted.
She knew she must finish the milking alone now, and she set to it with a will. In a surprisingly short time she was standing between two foaming milk-pails at the gate. To carry them both at once was almost, though not quite, beyond her strength; and as she stood for a moment hesitating whether she would try it, or go with one and return for the other, the matter was decided for her.
“Christie!” said a voice—not Aunt Elsie’s—from the door.
Turning, Christie saw her sister Effie. Surprise kept her riveted to the spot till her sister came down the path.
“Dinna lift them, Christie: you are no more able to do it than a chicken. I’ll carry them.”
But she stooped first to place her hands on her little sister’s shoulders and to kiss her softly. Christie did not speak; but the touch of her sister’s lips unsealed the fountain of her tears, and clinging to her and hiding her face, she cried and sobbed in a way that, at last, really frightened her sister.
“Why, Christie! Why, you foolish lassie! What ails you, child? Has anything happened?—or is it only that you are so glad to see me home again? Don’t cry in that wild way, child. What is it, Christie?”
“It’s nothing—I dinna ken—I canna help it!” cried Christie, after an ineffectual effort to control herself.
Her sister held the trembling little form for a moment without speaking, and then she said, cheerfully:
“See, Christie! It’s growing dark! We must be quick with the milking.”
“Why didna you come last week, Effie?” said Christie, rousing herself at last.
“Oh, partly because of the rain, and partly because I thought I would put my two holidays together. This is Thursday night, and I can stay till Monday morning—three whole days.”
Christie gave a sigh, and smiled.
“Come,” said Effie; “I’ll help you. I was waiting till you came from the pasture. I didna see you come.”
“No; I didna go in.”
It seemed to Christie that a very heavy burden had been lifted from her heart. She smiled without the sigh, as soon as she met her sister’s grave look.
“Did you walk home, Effie?” she asked.
“No; I got a chance to ride with the book-man. He was at the corner, and offered to bring me home, as he was coming this way. How beautiful your pans look, Christie! Will you need them all?”
They were in the milk-house now. It was a large, low place, partly made by digging into the side of the hill. It was a cool, pleasant place in summer, and well suited to the purpose for which it had been built. It was dark, however, when the girls entered, and would have been very gloomy but for Christie’s shining milk-pans and the rows of cream-covered dishes beyond.
They were all needed, and some new ones had just been brought from the tinman’s. “I like them,” said Christie: “they’re lighter than the earthen ones, and no’ so easily broken. We’ve got much more milk since the cows went into the upper field. You’ll see what a pailful Fleckie gives.”
“Fleckie is your favourite yet,” said Effie, smiling, as they left the dairy together.
“Oh, yes! she’s the best of them all—and so gentle! and I’m sure she knows me. I don’t think she likes any one to milk her half so well as me.”
“She’ll let me milk her to-night, though,” said Effie, removing her cuffs and turning up her sleeves.
“You’ll spoil your pretty frock,” said Christie, doubtfully.
“There’s no fear. I’ll take care. Give me the stool.”
Christie hesitated.
“But there’s Blackie and Brownie to do yet—unless you would rather milk Fleckie.”
“I would rather milk them all,” said Effie. “I’m sure, child, you look as though you had had enough of it for one day.”
“Oh, no; I expected to milk them all. I’m not very tired.”
Christie ran for another stool, and seated herself beside her favourite. She was quite near her sister, too; and they went on talking.
“I suppose this was churning-day?” said Effie.
“No; we churned yesterday, and we’ll churn again to-morrow. It’s harder, and takes longer, now that the nights have got cooler. But the butter is beautiful. We have the two tubs full, and we put the last we made in a jar. I’ll show it to you when we go in.”
“I suppose Annie and Sarah have but little time to help you now? No wonder you are tired,” said Effie.
“No; they cannot help us except on a rainy day. But I never churn alone. Aunt Elsie helps me. It took us three hours last time.”
“I shouldna wonder if that is the reason that Aunt Elsie’s shoulder is worse,” said Effie, with a sigh.
“Is it worse?” asked Christie. “She has said nothing about it.”
“No; she says there is no use in complaining. But I do hope she is not going to be ill, as she was before. It would be terrible for us all.”
“I hope not, indeed,” said Christie; and in a moment she added, “You would need to bide at home then, Effie.”
Effie shook her head.
“No; I should need all the more to be away if that were to happen. What should we all do for shoes, if it werena for my school-money?”
Christie’s countenance fell; but in a little time she said—
“But the harvest is a great deal better this year, Effie.”
“Yes; but there winna be much to sell. If we don’t have to buy, it will be a great thing for us. And the shoes we must have, and new harness, and other things. I mustna think of staying this winter, I’m sure, Christie.”
Christie gave a long sigh, as she rose with her full pail.
“I wish I was old enough and able to keep a school, or do something!”
“Do something!” echoed Effie. “I’m sure you do a great deal. Think of the butter! And you’ve made bread all the summer, and swept, and ironed, and washed the dishes.”
“But all that comes to very little,” said Christie, disconsolately.
“Indeed it does—to more than my school-keeping, I dare say. And I’m sure it’s far pleasanter work.”
“Pleasanter!” repeated Christie; and there was such a protesting echo in her voice that Effie could not help laughing; but she said, again—
“Yes, pleasanter. Don’t you think it must be far nicer to be at home with all the rest, than to stay among folk that don’t care about you, and have to bear your trouble alone?”
Christie opened her eyes wide.
“But, Effie, folk do care about you. And what troubles can you have to bear?”
Effie laughed softly; but she looked grave immediately.
“Well, I havena so many as I might have, I suppose.”
“I’m sure if I were you I should be perfectly happy,” said Christie.
“That’s only one of the mistakes you have fallen into,” said Effie, gravely. “Do you remember the story of the burdens, and how every one was willing to take up his own at last?”
Nothing in the world would have convinced Christie that her sister’s lot was not much pleasanter than her own; and she said to herself, how gladly she would change burdens with her! but aloud she only asked—
“Has anything new happened? What’s troubling you, Effie?”
“Oh, nothing has happened,” said Effie, cheerfully. “I’m getting on well. The worst of my troubles are those I find at home—Aunt Elsie’s rheumatism, and your pale, tired face, and the wearing out of the children’s clothes. And you have all these too: so I dare say my burden is the lightest, after all. Now let me see your butter.”
It was well worth seeing. There was one tub made when the weather had been warm, and, for that reason, was pronounced by Christie not quite so good. Then there was a large one, with over a hundred and twenty pounds in it—so hard, and yellow, and fragrant! Christie was not a little proud of it; and Effie praised it to her heart’s content. There was no better butter in all Glengarry, she was sure.
“And a hundred and twenty pounds of it! It’s worth twenty-five cents a pound, at least. Think of that, Christie!—thirty dollars in all! That is something of your doing, I should think.”
“Partly,” said Christie. “I only helped.” But she was very much pleased. “If we could only sell it, it would get us shoes, and lots of things.”
“But I’m afraid we mustna sell it,” said Effie. “We shall have so little meat all the winter—and it is so dear, too; and we shall need the butter. And how many cheeses are there? Five?”
“Five uncut. One is nearly done since the harvest. See, these two are better than the others. But it is getting so dark you canna see them. I think the cheese will be a great help. We had none last winter, you know.”
“Yes, indeed!” said Effie, heartily. “We shall have a better winter than the last was.”
“Except that you winna be at home,” said Christie, desponding a little again.
“Well, I would like to be at home, if it were best; but we canna have all we would like, you know. If you have milk to skim, you will need a candle, Christie.”
“No: I skimmed it before I went away. See, father and the girls have come home at last. How glad they will be to see you, Effie!”
Yes, everybody was glad to see Effie—though no one said much about it that night. Indeed, it was rather a silent party that partook of the frugal supper. Except that the book-man (as the colporteur was called) exchanged now and then a remark with Mr Redfern, little was said till supper was over and the Bible laid on the table for worship. The Redfern family had the custom of reading verse-about, as it is called, partly because lights were sometimes scarce, and partly because, after the work of a long summer day, both great and small were too tired to enjoy protracted reading; and it must be confessed that, at times, morning and evening devotions were both brief and formal. They were not so to-night, however; for they were led by Mr Craig, the book-man, a cheerful and earnest Christian, to whom, it was easily seen, God’s worship was no mere form, but a most blessed reality. Indeed, so lengthened was the exercise to-night that the little ones were asleep before it was done; and so earnest was he, so elevated were his ascriptions of praise, so appropriate his confessions and petitions, that the elder members of the family, notwithstanding their weariness, could not but listen and join with wonder and delight.
“He believes that it is worth one’s while to pray, at any rate,” said Christie to herself; and all at once it flashed upon her that a part of her prayer had been answered. Aunt Elsie had not spoken one word of reproof for her long delay by the side of the brook. Not a little startled, Christie paused to consider the matter further.
“She could hardly have scolded me while a stranger was here. And, besides, Effie’s here, too, and I wouldna have much cared if she had. And it’s no’ too late yet. She’ll be sending me to my bed the moment the dishes are put by.”
But she did not. Long after the little ones, and even Annie and Sarah, were asleep, Christie was allowed to sit without rebuke, listening to the pleasant talk of her father and Mr Craig, and now and then saying a word to Effie, on whose lap her head was laid. The only words that Aunt Elsie spoke to her that night were kind enough; and some of them were spoken while Effie was not there.
“So that it couldna be to please her,” thought Christie. “What if God should hear my prayer, after all?”
The thought was quite as startling as it was pleasant. Then she wondered if Effie had brought the book. She did not like to ask her. She did so want to believe that she might fall back on God’s help in all her troubles; but if Effie had not brought the book she could not be sure that her prayer had been heard. “Could it be possible?” she said to herself. It seemed altogether too good, too wonderful, to be true. And yet there were verses in the Bible very plain, very easy to be understood—“Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find;” and many more besides that.
She repeated the words slowly and earnestly. That must be true, she thought. Every one believed the Bible. And yet how few live and pray and trust as though they really do believe it! She had heard discussions, many and long, between her father and some of their neighbours, on difficult passages of Scripture and difficult points of doctrine. She had heard the Scriptures quoted to support doctrines very different in their nature. She had heard passages commented upon and explained away to suit the views of the speaker, until she had come to think, sometimes, that the most obvious meaning of a text could not possibly be the true one; and she said to herself, what if she had been taking comfort from these promises too soon? What if they meant something else, or meant what they seemed to mean only to those to whom they were spoken? What if, for some unknown, mysterious reason, she were among those who had no part nor lot in the matter?—among those who hearing hear not, or who fail to understand? And before she was aware, the hopefulness of the last half-hour was vanishing away before the troubled and doubtful thoughts that rushed upon her.
“I wish there was any one that I could ask about it! I wonder if Effie would know? I’ll see if she has brought me the book; and that will be something. Maybe the book-man could tell me all about it. Only I don’t like to ask him.”
She turned her eyes towards him, as the thought passed through her mind. His face was plain and wrinkled and brown; but, for all that, it was a very pleasant face to look at. It was a grave face, even when he smiled; but it was never other than a pleasant one. There was something in it that brought to Christie’s mind her favourite verse about “the peace that passeth all understanding.”
“He has it, I do believe,” she said, while she quietly watched him as he listened or talked.
“It must be a weary life you live,” Aunt Elsie was saying, “going about from morning till night, in all weathers, with those books of yours; a weary life and a thankless.”
“Do you think so?” said Mr Craig, with a smile. “I don’t think it is a harder life than most of the people that I see are living. No harder than the farmers have during this busy harvest-time. No harder than the pedlars of tin-ware and dry goods have, that go about the country in all weathers.”
“But it’s different with the farmer, who tills his own land. He is working to some end. Every tree he cuts, every sheaf he reaps and gathers in, is so much gain to him; and even these pedlars must have a measure of enjoyment when their sales are good. They are gaining their living by their travels.”
“Well, so am I, for that matter,” said Mr Craig, still smiling. “I am on equal terms with them there; though I cannot say that the greatest part of the pleasure I have in my work arises from the gain it is to me. But why do you say it is a thankless work?”
Instead of answering directly, Aunt Elsie asked, a moment after:
“Are you always well received,—you and your books?”
“Oh, yes; in this part of the country, always,—quite as well as other pedlars are, and sometimes far better, for my work’s sake. I have been in places where the reception I met with was something worse than cold. But I now and then met, even in those places, some that welcomed me so warmly for the work’s sake I was doing as to make me little heed the scoffs of the others.”
“You are sent out by a society, I think?” said Aunt Elsie. “It is mostly Bibles that you sell?”
“Yes; it’s mostly Bibles that I carry with me.”
There was a pause. The colporteur sat looking into the red embers, with the smile on his face which Christie had found so attractive. In a little while Aunt Elsie, not without some hesitation, said:
“And is all the time and trouble and money spent by this society worth their while?”
Aunt Elsie would have been shocked had any one expressed a doubt of her sincere respect for the Bible. Her respect was hereditary. Not one day in her childhood or womanhood had passed in which she had not heard or read some portion of the Holy Book. Nothing could have induced her to part with one of the several Bibles that had been in her possession for years. One had been hers when a girl at school, one had lain in her seat at the kirk for many a year, and a third had lain on her parlour-table and been used by her at family worship when she kept house for herself. It would have seemed to her like sacrilege to let them pass into other hands. That the superiority of the Scottish people over all other nations (in which superiority she firmly believed) was in some way owing to the influence of God’s Word, read and understood, she did not doubt. But her ideas of the matter were by no means satisfactory even to herself. That the Bible, read and understood, should ever change the mixed multitudes of her new and adopted country into a people grave and earnest and steadfast for the right, was altogether beyond her thought. The humble labours of this man, going about from house to house, to place perhaps in careless or unwilling hands the Bible (God’s Word though she acknowledged it to be), seemed a very small matter—a means very inadequate to the end desired. So it was a doubtful and hesitating assent that she yielded to the reply of Mr Craig in the form of a question.
“Is not God’s Word His appointed instrument for the salvation of men? And will He not bless it to that end? I do not doubt it,” continued Mr Craig. “How can I doubt it, in the face of the promise that His word shall not return unto Him void—that it shall prosper in that whereunto He sendeth it? I never let a Bible pass from my hands without asking from God that it may be made the means of a lasting blessing to at least one soul. And I have faith to believe that my prayer will be heard and granted.”
Aunt Elsie’s motions expressed some surprise.
“And is not that presumption on your part?” she asked.
“Which? The prayer, or the expectation?” said Mr Craig. “Not the prayer, surely, when He says, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.’ ‘Whatsoever ye shall ask in My name, believing, ye shall receive.’ ‘Ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.’ Is it presumption to ask blessings for those whom God so loved that He sent His only begotten Son into the world to die that they might live? ‘Will He not with Him also freely give them all things?’ Truly, I think the presumption would lie in not asking, or in asking and not expecting to receive.”
In the pause that followed, Christie, with a strange feeling at her heart, pondered the words.
“Well,” said Aunt Elsie, in a moment, “I dare say it is as well that you have these thoughts to encourage you. The Bible can do nobody harm, at any rate; and it may do good to the bairns at the school.”
Mr Craig opened his lips, as though he were going to answer her; but he did not. By and by he said—quite as much as though he were speaking to himself as to her:
“Yes; it is indeed a good thing to have God’s promise to fall back upon. My work would be vain and weary work without that. And so would any work to which I could put my hand. There are folk in the world who live with no hope or trust in God’s promised blessing. How they do it I cannot tell.”
“God is good to many a one who thinks little of Him or of His care; or what would become of the world and the thousands in it?” said Aunt Elsie, with a sigh.
Mr Craig gave her a quick look.
“Yes: He is kind to the evil and the unthankful. But I was thinking of the blessedness of those who have the daily and hourly sense of God’s presence with them and His fatherly care over them. In time of trouble, and at all times, indeed, it is sweet to know that we have His word and promise for all that we possibly need.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Elsie, uneasily, and rather coldly. “There is much truth in what you say.”
Mr Craig continued: “There is no fear of being forgotten. He who sees the sparrow when it falls, and does not forget to number the hairs of our heads, may well be trusted. And may we not trust in Him who is not ashamed to call His people brethren? Our Elder Brother! He who suffered being tempted—who is touched with the feeling of our infirmities! It is worth while to have His promise to fall back upon—for me in my journeys, for you amid your household cares, and for this little maiden here amid whatever life may bring to her.”
In the interest with which she listened, Christie had forgotten her shyness, and had drawn quite near; and now she sat with her eyes fastened on the good man’s face, her own quite expressive of intense eagerness.
“Christie,” said her aunt, as her eye fell upon her, “it is high time you were in bed. There will be no getting you up in the morning. Your sisters are all asleep. Haste away.”
Christie would have given much for courage to ask one question; and perhaps a glance into the kind face that was looking down upon her might have given it to her, had her aunt not been there. Perhaps he guessed her thought; for he said, as he put out his hand and laid it softly on hers:
“Yes, my lassie; it is not beyond belief that the kind care and the loving eye of this Elder Brother should be over you, if you are one of His little ones. Are you?”
The last words were spoken after a momentary pause, and the little brown hand was gently pressed as they were uttered. If Christie could have found words with which to answer him, she could not have uttered them through the tears and sobs that had not been far from her all the evening. Slowly obeying the admonishing touch of her aunt, she withdrew her hand from the gentle pressure that detained it, and crept away in the dark to the room where all her sisters, except Effie, were already asleep.
And what a tumult of glad, wondering and doubtful thoughts was stirring her heart as she seated herself on the floor and leaned her weary head upon her hand! Could it all be true? Did God see and hear and care for people? And for her too? The Elder Brother! What a sweet name to give to Jesus! It seemed easier to believe that He would care for her, calling Him by that name.
And if it were really true that God heard her prayers and would answer them, certainly things would not go so badly with her any more. But was she one of His little ones? Surely there was no one more helpless and hopeless and troubled—nobody that needed help more!
“Oh, if I could only be sure!” she whispered. “But I’ll see to-night. Aunt Elsie wasna vexed to-night. And if Effie has brought me the book, I’ll take it for a sign. Oh, I wish she would come!”
And yet, when Effie came in with a light in her hand, Christie was in no haste to speak. Effie moved about very quietly, for fear of waking her sisters; and then she sat down, shading the light from their faces.
“Haste you, Christie dear,” she whispered. “I thought you were in bed. It is more than time.”
Christie slowly undressed, and after kneeling a little while, laid herself down on the low bed beside her little sister. But she did not sleep. She did not even close her eyes, but lay watching sometimes the motionless figure of Effie and sometimes her shadow on the wall, wondering all the while what could keep her occupied so silently and so long. Yet when at last the book was closed and Effie began to move about the room, she could not find courage to speak to her at once.
“Effie,” she said, by and by, “did you bring me the book you promised?”
Effie started.
“Christie, I thought you were asleep! Do you know how late it is?”
“Did you bring me the book you promised?” repeated the child, eagerly.
Effie could not resist the beseeching face; and she came and seated herself on the side of the bed.
“I wanted it so much,” continued Christie. “I thought you would bring it! Did you forget it? Or were you not up there this week?”
“I was there, and I didna forget it; but—”
“Did you bring it?” cried Christie, rising, in her eagerness. “Where is it?”
Effie shook her head.
“I didna bring it, Christie.”
Poor little Christie! She laid herself back on her pillow without a word. The disappointment was a very bitter one; and she turned her face away, that her sister might not see the tears that were gushing from her eyes. She had all the week been looking forward to the pleasure of having a book—“The Scottish Chiefs”—a stolen glance or two of which had excited her interest to the highest degree; and the disappointment was great. But that it should have failed to come on this particular night was harder still to bear.
“If God only hears half our prayers, and that the half we care least about, what is the use of praying at all? Oh, dear! I thought I had found something at last!”
“Christie,” said her sister, laying her hand on her shoulder, “why are you crying in that way? Surely you have had tears enough for once? What ails you, child? Speak to me, Christie.”
“Oh, you might have brought it!” she exclaimed, through her sobs. “You almost promised.”
“No, Christie, I didna promise. I didna forget it. But I am afraid—indeed, I am sure—that the reading of the book would do you no good, but harm; and so I didna bring it to you. You are wrong to be so vexed about it.”
“Is it a bad book?” asked Christie.
“I am not sure that it is a bad book. But I think it might do you harm to read it. I am afraid your imagination is too full of such things already.”
This had been said to her in far sharper words many a time before; and Christie made no answer.
“You know yourself, Christie, when you get a book that interests you, you are apt to neglect other things for the pleasure of reading it. Almost always Aunt Elsie has to find fault with you for it.”
“Aunt Elsie always finds fault with me!” sighed Christie.
“But you give her reason to find fault with you when you neglect your duties for such reading, as you must confess you do; even to-day, you know.”
“I believe it grieves Aunt Elsie’s heart to see me taking pleasure in anything,” said Christie, turning round passionately. “She never heeds when Annie or Sarah takes a book; but if I look the way of one, she’s at me. I believe she would be glad if there was no such thing as a book in the house.”
“Hush, Christie! You are wrong to speak in that way. It is not true what you are saying. Aunt Elsie is fond of reading; and if she doesna object to Annie and Sarah taking a book, it is because they don’t very often do so. They never neglect their work for reading, as you too often do.”
All this was true, as Christie’s conscience told her; but she was by no means willing to confess as much; so she turned away her face, and said, pettishly:
“Oh, well, I hear all that often enough. There’s no use in saying anything more about it.”
Effie rose, and went to the other side of the room. When she returned, she carried something wrapped in paper in her hand.
“Look, Christie; I brought you a book—a better book than ‘The Scottish Chiefs.’ Turn round and look at it.”
Slowly Christie raised herself up and turned round. She was ashamed of her petulance by this time. Something shone in the light of the candle which Effie held.
“What is it?” she asked; and her sister placed it in her hand.
It was a Bible, a very beautiful one, bound in purple morocco, with clasps and gilt edges. It was small, but not too small even for Christie’s eyes.
“Oh, how beautiful!” exclaimed Christie, forgetting everything in her delight. “It is the very thing I have been wishing for!”
Effie said nothing, but watched her, well pleased.
“But, Effie,” said Christie, suddenly, “this must have been very dear. A plainer one would have done just as well. Did it cost much?”
“Not very much,” said Effie, sitting down beside her again. “A Bible is for one’s whole lifetime, and so I got a good one, and a pretty one, too; you are so fond of pretty things. If I had known that the book-man was coming here I might have waited and let you choose it for yourself. We might have changed it now, but see, I have written your name in it.”
She turned to the fly-leaf, and read “Christina Redfern,” with the date, in Effie’s pretty handwriting. She gave a sigh of pleasure as she turned it over.
“No, I don’t believe there is a nicer one there. It’s far prettier than yours, Effie. Wouldna you have liked it? Your old one would have done for me.”
“Oh, no, indeed! I would far rather have my own old Bible than the prettiest new one,” said Effie, hastily.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Christie. “Mother gave it to you.”
“Yes; and, besides, I have got used to it. I know just where to find the places I want, almost without thinking of the chapter.”
“It is a perfect beauty of a Bible; and such clear print! But I am afraid it cost a great deal—as much as a pair of shoes, perhaps?” she continued, looking at her sister.
Effie laughed.
“But what comparison is there between a Bible and a pair of shoes? You must read it every day, dear; and then you’ll be sure to think of me.”
“I do that many times every day,” said Christie, sighing.
“I’m glad you like it, dear. Mr Craig ask me if it was for myself; and I told him no, it was for my little sister at home.”
Christie started. This, then, was one of the Bibles that the book-man had said he asked God to bless for the good of at least one soul. And he seemed so sure that his prayer would be heard. And, then, had not her prayer been heard?—not just as she had hoped, but in a better way. The thought filled her with a strange glad wonder. Could it be possible? Her eye fell on the open page, and her hand trembled as she read:
“Ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.”
“Effie,” she said, softly, “I thank you very much. Lay it in my little box; and good-night.”
The tears that wet her pillow were very different from the drops that had fallen on it a little while before.
“Nothing will be so bad again,” she murmured. “Nothing—nothing. Whatever happens, I can always pray!”