"'Twasn't the Master's way," repeated Job, laying two folds of scarlet cloth together. "I think He'd maybe have me help the poor stray lamb, as nobody else can help—maybe He'd wish I should do it for His sake."
"Don't know nothin' about that," said John. "A man must act with common prudence, I says."
"So says I," responded Job. "There ain't a more prudent transaction, I can tell ye, than that o' lendin' to the Master. It's hundred per cent interest that He gives back."
"You're gettin' out o' my depth," said John, with some impatience. "Poor folks like us, livin' from hand to mouth, haven't no time for religion—and livin' in dirty holes, with a crowd o' yelling children round, ain't the way to practise it, neither."
"Ain't a man in the world that needs religion more than such a one," said Job quietly. "Don't ye want help in gettin' your daily bread, and in takin' care o' your children?"
"I wants a deal o' things I'll never get," said John curtly. "What'll ye do about the child?"
"Keep her a bit. She'll sleep in my closet—an' maybe—"
"Hope you won't have cause to repent it," said John, getting up, with some annoyance at the rejection of his advice. "Good mornin' t' ye."
Ailie never moved till he was gone, and then, standing up, she asked, with dilated eyes—
"Ain't I going, really?"