"I was dumb, I opened not my mouth: because Thou didst it."
But she could not reach beyond "dumbness." She could not look up and say, "It is well."
After all, was there any need—as yet? The blow had only just fallen: and He who sent it knew its weight, knew her weakness. Annie had only just entered the School of Sorrow, and He who called her into it could pity her faltering steps with all a mother's tenderness.
She had to go back to her father. That recollection came soon, and Annie yielded to its call. Leaving the dining-room, where she had stood alone with clasped hands and drooping head, she crept thither.
And she had to look bright, to seem cheerful, to wear a face of calm unconsciousness! How could she, with this weight upon her heart?
"I have been looking for you," her father said. "Come here, my child."
Annie did as he told her. She knelt down beside the couch, and laid her face against him.
"That is the right attitude for both of us, isn't it?" said Mr. Wilmot softly.
"Father—" Annie tried to say, hardly knowing what she meant to utter. But the broken word was taken up in quiet accents—
"Father, Thy will, not ours, be done."