“About twenty, I said. After twenty years, I do think, my dear Amelia, that for one professing to be so religious as yourself there is a singular want of resignation to Providence, in fretting still, year after year. You ought by this time to have learnt a spirit of submission. Other people have their sorrows too. I have lost my dear husband, I hope I know how to bear my loss with fortitude.”
“It is very wrong of me—very wrong, I am afraid,” the other lady said, with a meek tremulousness. “I do hope it is not want of submission to God’s will. He knows what is best—I know—I am sure. But still, people do suffer so differently; and some troubles seem to cut away the very ground from under one’s feet. If I could have seen my boy again before he died, or if I might have watched his child growing up—have held the little thing in my arms.”
“Quite impossible, Amelia. Your husband would never have consented. And if the child is alive now, she is a woman. Perhaps you would have wished to welcome her mother also to your home and heart?”
“As Hubert’s wife—yes.”
“But as the milkman’s daughter—no!”
“He was—quite a respectable farmer,” faltered the lady; “and she I believe, was well educated.”
Mrs. St. John made an indescribable gesture.
“Perhaps, my dear Amelia, you would like to call upon Cairns the next time my butter and milk bill has to be paid. You might take a message from me that his butter has been very poor lately, at the same time that you announce yourself as his daughter’s mother-in-law!”
“I don’t think you need talk like this to me. It is not quite kind,” remonstrated her friend.
Mrs. St. John rose and walked to the window.