"No doubt, no doubt," said he, sadly, not daring to argue such a point with her, and yet feeling but little consolation from her assurance. "So is the bullock in God's hands when the butcher is going to knock him on the head, but yet we know that the beast will die. Men live and die from natural causes, and not by God's interposition."
"But there is hope; that is what I mean. If God pleases—"
"Ah, well. But, Margaret, I fear that he will not please; and what am I to do about Sarah and the children?"
This was a question that could be answered by no general platitude,—by no weak words of hopeless consolation. Coming from him to her, it demanded either a very substantial answer, or else no answer at all. What was he to do about Sarah and the children? Perhaps there came a thought across her mind that Sarah and the children had done very little for her,—had considered her very little, in those old, weary days, in Arundel Street. And those days were not, as yet, so very old. It was now not much more than twelve months since she had sat by the deathbed of her other brother,—since she had expressed to herself, and to Harry Handcock, a humble wish that she might find herself to be above absolute want.
"I do not think you need fret about that, Tom," she said, after turning these things over in her mind for a minute or two.
"How, not fret about them? But I suppose you know nothing of the state of the business. Has Rubb spoken to you?"
"He did say some word as we came along in the cab."
"What did he say?"
"He said—"
"Well, tell me what he said. He said, that if I died—what then? You must not be afraid of speaking of it openly. Why, Margaret, they have all told me that it must be in a month or two. What did Rubb say?"