Phebe was silent, for we all, somehow or other, cling to the idea our burden is a specially heavy one.
Then Nanna went on: "You want me to say what I think. Well, you must not scold if you don't like what I am going to say, seeing you would have it; but I've been thinking instead of you being too frisky, you're not joyful enough. You've got five young folks immediately under your control, not to speak of others, and for their sakes—if no other reason—you've got to be joyful. And then there's another reason—you profess to be a Christian, and they're shams and nothing else who don't go in for delight-work—delighting themselves in God. The idea that your trouble should be a sort of black veil to you is ridiculous. If you let your trouble shadow your life it's as good as saying God is not able to take care of you, and if you let it hinder you in your life it gives the victory to Satan, and seems to say trouble has more power over you than God's peace. No, our dear Heavenly Father knows what it is to be merry, and He expects His children to be merry too. So mind you are."
"You dear, sunny preacher," said Phebe, reaching up and kissing her.
"Ah, I do wish folks would go in for more joy. I do believe we could do with joy-missions and joy-missionaries."
"You are one already."
Again there was silence, and then Phebe said: "Of course, it's not as though I had no hope at all. Ralph may come back; sometimes I think that loneliness will waken up his love again, for they say love never dies."
"No love dies," replied Nanna, "but it changes. There are a good many sorts of love. But even, dearie, if that hope never comes about, you've got God and Jack to hope in. Now, I may ask a question, mayn't I?"
"You know you may, you old darling Nanna."
"Are you going in for that 'calm, quiet dignity' affair, or are you going to be the Lord's happy-hearted Phebe?"
"The latter, God helping me," in a quiet whisper.