“Ethel, you and I cannot judge of these things—you must leave them to our elders—”
“And men always are so fanciful about ladies—”
“Indeed, if you speak in that way, I shall think it is really hurting you.”
“I did not mean it, dear Margaret,” said Ethel, “but if you knew what I feel for poor Cocksmoor, you would not wonder that I cannot bear it.”
“I do not wonder, dearest; but if this trial is sent you, perhaps it is to train you for better things.”
“Perhaps it is for my fault,” said Ethel. “Oh, oh, if it be that I am too unworthy! And it is the only hope; no one will do anything to teach these poor creatures if I give it up. What shall I do, Margaret?”
Margaret drew her down close to her, and whispered, “Trust them Ethel, dear. The decision will be whatever is the will of God. If He thinks fit to give you the work, it will come; if not, He will give you some other, and provide for them.”
“If I have been too neglectful of home, too vain of persevering when no one but Richard would!” sighed Ethel.
“I cannot see that you have, dearest,” said Margaret fondly, “but your own heart must tell you that. And now, only try to be calm and patient. Getting into these fits of despair is the very thing to make people decide against you.”
“I will! I will! I will try to be patient,” sobbed Ethel; “I know to be wayward and set on it would only hurt. I might only do more harm—I’ll try. But oh, my poor children!”