The woman rose, and called her little girl from the window, where she had been absorbed in looking out from such an unusual height.
"She's better then?" asked Meg.
"Yes," answered her mother, undoing the bandage; "see, it ain't such a great place. How it did bleed to be sure!"
"I should keep it wet for the present," said Meg; "water softens things so."
"That's true," said the woman. Then hesitating, she added, "Mrs. Seymour, you and your mother-in-law has been the only creatures since I came to London who has ever done me a kindness—I don't forgit it. The neighbours come in at times, and they mean to be kind; but one and another 'ull say a little word as 'ull make ye discontented with yer lot; and it ain't a bit of good. We've got to bear it, and makin' the worst of it don't mend it."
"No," answered Meg softly, "that's why——"
"Yes," interrupted the woman. "You say I've got a burden, but you say there's the Lord as can lighten it, and I shan't forgit. For one thing, I can see as you let Him carry yours."
She turned abruptly and left the room, and Meg's eyes filled with tears to think how little, after all, she loved and trusted that dear Lord who loved her and gave Himself for her.
