She was very tired when Chilian lifted her out of the carriage and took her upstairs. Rachel put her to bed for a while and gave her a cup of hot tea—mint and catnip—which was a great restorer, or so considered, in those days. She came down to supper and was quite bright.
Every day she improved a little. Eunice said she was getting 'climated.
Elizabeth wondered if she had any deep feeling. She had expected to see her "take on" terribly. Chilian begged her not to disturb the child's faith that both parents were in heaven.
"Letty Orne, that was, might have been one of the elect, but sea captains are seldom considered safe in the fold, as children of grace. I never heard that he had any evidence. And 'tisn't safe to count on meeting them unless you've had some sign."
"We must leave a good many of these things to God. His ways are better than our short-sighted wisdom."
Elizabeth was never quite sure of Chilian. So much study, and reading, and college talk, and the new theories, and what they called discoveries, were enough to unsettle one's faith, and she feared for him. Younger children than Cynthia had gone through the throes of conviction—she had herself, and she longed to see her in this state.
But the child was quite her olden self. What with the change of climate and her illness she was many shades fairer, and her hair was losing its queer sunburned color. Her thin frame began to fill out, her face grew rounder, and her smile was sweetness itself.
"But she hasn't grown a mite since she came. Leverett people are all of a fair size. I don't know a little runt among them," persisted Elizabeth.
"I wish I could grow," she sighed in confidence to Chilian.
"Never mind. Then you will always be my little girl," he would answer consolingly.