‘I have been thinking how kindly that sentence is framed: “Casting all your care on Him.” All, as if we might have been afraid to lay before Him our petty perplexities. It is the knowing we are cared for in detail, that is the comfort; and that when we have honestly done our best in little things, our Father will bless them, and fill up our shortcomings.
‘That dressmaker must have been a happy woman, who never took home her work without praying that it might fit. I always liked that story particularly, as it shows how the practical life in the most trivial round can be united with thus casting all our care upon Him—the being busy in our own station with choosing the good part. I suppose it is as a child may do its own work in a manufactory, not concerning itself for the rest; or a coral-worm make its own cell, not knowing what branches it is helping to form, or what an island it is raising. What a mercy that we have only to try to do right from moment to moment, and not meddle with the future!’
‘Like herself,’ said John.
‘I never thought of such things,’ said Violet. ‘I never thought little matters seemed worth treating in this way.’
‘Everything that is a duty or a grief must be worth it,’ said John. ‘Consider the worthlessness of what we think most important in That Presence. A kingdom less than an ant’s nest in comparison. But, here, I must show you a more everyday bit. It was towards the end, when she hardly ever left her grandfather, and I had been writing to urge her to spare herself.’
Violet read—
‘You need not be afraid, dear John; I am quite equal to all I have to do. Fatigue never knocks me up, which is a great blessing; and I can sleep anywhere at the shortest notice. Indeed, I don’t know what should tire me, for there is not even any running up and down stairs; and as to spirits, you would not think them in danger if you heard how I talk parish matters to the curate, and gossip with the doctor, till grandpapa brightens, and I have to shout an abstract of the news into his ear. It is such a treat to bring that flash of intelligence on his face—and it has not been so rare lately; he seems now and then to follow one of the Psalms, as I read them to him at intervals through the day. Then for pastime, there is no want of that, with the two windows looking out different ways. I can’t think how you could forget my two beautiful windows—one with a view of the back door for my dissipation, and the other with the garden, and the varieties of trees and the ever-changing clouds. I never look out without finding some entertainment; my last sight was a long-tailed titmouse, popping into the yew tree, and setting me to think of the ragged fir tree at Brogden, with you and Percy spying up, questioning whether golden-crest or long-tailed pye lived in the dome above. No, no; don’t waste anxiety upon me. I am very happy, and have everything to be thankful for.’
‘“My mind to me a kingdom is,” she might have said,’ observed John.
‘She might indeed. How beautiful! How ashamed it does make one of oneself!’
So they continued, he choosing passages, which she read aloud, till the evening was over, when he asked her whether she would like to look through the book?’