Dil moved uneasily, and worked her fingers with a nervous motion.
“There have been some over back of the woods there,” and Miss Mary inclined her head. “There were in June, I remember.”
“I might go and see.”
“Oh, will you? I wisht so I had some.”
“The walk will do you good.” There had come a distraught look in Virginia’s face. Oh, what if John Travis failed! Even to-morrow might be too late.
“You’ll let the children go with you,” said Dil. “They’ll like it so; an’ I’ll keep still ’n’ try to go to sleep.”
The old serenity came back with the smile. She had learned so many lessons of patience and self-denial in the short life, the grand patience perfected through love and sacrifice, the earthly type of that greater love. But the sweet little face almost unnerved Virginia.
The children hailed her with delight, and clung so to her gown that she could hardly take a step. Perhaps it was their noise that had unconsciously worn upon Dil’s very slender nerves. Miss Mary read to her awhile, and in the soft, soothing silence she fell asleep.
Yes, she had come to that sign and seal indelibly stamped on the faces of the “called.” The dread something no word can fitly describe, and it was so much more apparent in her sleep.
“Miss Mary,” said an attendant, “can you come down a moment?”