"Yes. Oh, I do love her so! But nobody else cries, and they all say I mustn't. And it almost seems as if nobody else cared, and I can't bear them not to care. And I don't know how to bear her being away—such a dreadfully long time! If only they wouldn't say things—wouldn't speak—"
"Hush, Elfie! You have cried enough," I said gravely.
She laid her face on my shoulder, resolutely suppressing every sound.
"That is brave," I whispered. "And you have to be brave, haven't you? Your mother would be so grieved to hear that any of you were unhappy."
"Yes, oh, I know. If only I needn't think of her! If only nobody would speak—"
"But you would not quite like that really," I said. "It is so natural for you all to speak and think of the dear mother."
And then I tried saying a few words about the need for patience and for submission to God's will. I told her that she must ask for strength to fight on bravely, must ask to be kept from adding to others' troubles. I spoke also about God's loving care of our absent ones; and I reminded Elfie how she might pray very often for the dear mother, and how she might always think of her as safe in a Father's hands, guarded and protected.
"That is the best comfort, Elfie," I said, "the only real comfort! For He is just as much with her out there in Italy as with us here in England."
I was surprised at the sudden calmness which came in response to my few and simple words. Elfie's tears stopped, and the hard long breaths grew easy. She sat up on the sofa, put her arms round me once more, and said, "I am so sorry to have given all this trouble."
"No trouble at all," I said. "But I should like to see you happy, dear Elfie."