"Ah, my dear, don't cry," said the one who was young and happy, "don't cry. You'll make him so sad."
"Do you think he knows?" the widow asked.
"Of course he knows. He knows everything's going to be all right, only he hates to see you miserable. He knows it's only a little time, really, before you and he will be together again, and happy for ever and ever."
"I wish I could believe that."
"You must, because it's true. I expect he's been praying for you, and that's why you met us—because, you know, I'm certain my"—she hesitated, but the word came instead of "brother," which was what she thought she meant to say—"my husband will think of something for you to do to earn your living; he's so clever. And I suppose the business—"
Yes. The business had gone to pieces. Fashions change so, and the widow had not known how to follow the fashions in needlework. There was only enough left to pay the creditors, but every one had been paid, and with the pound or two left over she had lived, trying to get needle work, or even, at last, charring or washing. But it had all been no good; nothing had been any good.
"And now," said Katherine, "everything's going to be good. You'll see. Edward will think of something. Don't cry any more. You must not cry. I can't bear it, dear. Don't."
"I'm only crying for joy," said the woman whose life was over. "Even if he doesn't think of anything, I can't ever despair again, and you being like you have to me."
But when Edward came back he had thought of something. His old nurse, it seemed, was in temporary charge of a house that wanted a housekeeper, and he was sure Mrs. Burbidge understood housekeeping.