They went down the stairs and out into the street together, talking alternately—as people do under such circumstances—of trivial things and of that which filled their hearts.
When Winnifred reached home, she found her mother seated at the open window of the sitting-room, darning a pair of stockings—a homely enough occupation, but to Winnie's eyes her mother had never looked so dear or so beautiful, and she went and put her arms about her neck. Her mother returned the embrace, holding her close for a moment, and then she said gently:
"Have you your lessons for Monday, dear?"
"Oh, mamma," said Winnie, "it does not seem to me as if I can ever study again!"
"Is there any nearer duty, Winnie?"
"I don't know—I suppose not. But, mamma, I can't put my mind on my lessons, when Ernestine's mother is so sick."
"Can you help Ernestine any by neglecting your own duties, dear? You do not recognize Giant Despair when he comes in the guise of love and sympathy for your friends, but he it is who comes at these times. You know in Whose hands are the issues of life and death, of health and sickness. You cannot help Ernestine's future by worrying over her present; but you may mar a portion of your own by neglecting your present."
Winnie could not help knowing that her mother was right. She took out her books, and was soon so hard at work that her disturbed emotions were quieted, and by supper time, though still full of sympathy for her friend, she was quite herself again, and ready to play the accompaniment to the new piece her brother was learning. And when she went to bed, it was to sleep peacefully, rather than to lie awake fighting unseen terrors, as Mrs. Burton well knew would have been the case with her high-strung child had she been allowed to brood over the events of the day.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
