Milicent came almost reluctantly. Her hands ached intolerably, and she felt wretched altogether. But the warm rays of the fire began to play upon her chilled little frame, and as she nestled her head in her aunt's neck, she felt comfort beginning to steal over her.
"Cold is very bad to bear," said her aunt, softly. "I heard from a soldier who came from South Africa that some of the poor fellows on duty at night would positively cry with the bitter cold."
Milicent looked up suddenly.
"These are words said to you and to me, Milly, 'Endure hardness, as good soldiers of Jesus Christ.'"
"I didn't mean to cry," said Milly, "only I couldn't get on."
"No, dear; and do you know when I saw your pitiful little face, I remembered what I heard at a missionary meeting a week or two ago? The young clergyman had been working for seven years all among the snows of North-West Canada—"
"'Working?'" asked Milicent.
"Trying to tell the Red Indians and Eskimos, and the trappers and hunters about Jesus, our Saviour, of whom they have never heard."
"Oh, I see," said Milicent. "Now I know what you mean."
"The missionaries there only get letters three times in the year; they have to live almost entirely on dried meat and a little tea, and often go very short of that! They never see the sun for nine months in the year, and the snow is five feet thick on the ground!"