Of course I may be making a mistake. The fact that this particular step seems the right one for me to take, does not absolutely prove that it is the right one. Of one thing, however, I am sure,—whether or no I mistake His will, He knows that my hearts longing is to do His will. And the root of the matter lies there,—far more in the heart's longing than in the actual doing.
So I went to the Millingtons', arriving about midday. I saw the younger sister, Jeannie, first. She welcomed me warmly, spoke of her mother's state as not improved, then vanished, to send her sister.
Miss Millington entered with a cold and depressed air,—almost with the old look of aversion. Her eyes said plainly—"What brings you here?"
I paid no regard to her manner, but said, "I am sorry to hear that your mother is not better."
"Not likely to be," she answered shortly.
"I have brought a little present, which I hope may be the remedy she needs."
Miss Millington repeated the word, "Remedy!" in a vague tone, adding—"We have our own doctor."
"But this is the medicine he prescribes," I replied, and I put into her hand the purse I held. "You will not be too proud to accept it from me,—for your mother's sake."
Few people know how to receive a gift gracefully, even under favourable circumstances; and the circumstances were hardly favourable to Miss Millington. She stared at first; opened the purse slowly; grew distressingly scarlet and gasped, when she caught sight of bank-notes and gold.
"There are fifty pounds," I said, "the amount you need."