Jean's arms dropped to her sides and she pressed her lips tightly together.
"And he will lead you farther and farther away, Jean. He has a power over you that I would never have believed, never. Ever since you have known him you have been different. You're ready at his beck and call. Have you ever refused to go anywhere when he has asked you? Long ago you gave up church, but, still, you spent the day with some kind of respect. But now, how do you spend the day that God Himself put aside for His worship?"
"In the hills that He made." Jean almost prayed for strength to be patient.
"And your friends? Infidels and wasters and adulterers, by your own story. Oh, Jeany, Jeany, my baby."
Martha laid her head on the table and sobbed.
Jean rose. In spite of all her effort to do otherwise she could not help it. She felt a physical nausea at the sight of her mother's emotion. She tried to go nearer and could not. She could not comfort or touch that quivering figure.
"Let's not talk any more about it, mother. It will only make us both unhappy."
Martha struggled with her feeling as with an enemy and conquered. She rose, too, and for a moment they stood facing each other.
"There is some good purpose in it all, there must be and He will show me. Perhaps I have loved you too much and He has chosen this instead of death. You must have patience with me, Jean. He will show me. Till then I can only say blindly—Thy will be done."
Before the tremendous egotism of her mother's humility, Jean went slowly back to the table and sat down.