Days, months and years went by and with each moment of them, Mary gave out of herself the light of her ideals for that green bough to grow in.
Still as ever, she continued with her work on the farm, one indeed of them now, and when he could walk, took John with her to fetch the cows, exacting patience from him while he sat there in the stalls beside her watching her milk.
"We have to work, John," she said. "You and I have to work. I shall never disturb you when you're plowing or dropping the seeds in the ground. Work's a holy thing, John. Do you know that? You wouldn't come and disturb me while I was saying my prayers, would you?"
Solemnly John shook his head. He knew too well he always held his breath, because then she had told him God was in the room.
"Is God in the shed here now, while you're milking?" he asked.
She nodded an affirmative to give him the impression that so close God was she dared not speak aloud.
"Does He get thirsty when He sees all that milk in the pail?"
She bit her lips from laughter and shook her head again. That was a moment when many a mother would have taken him in her arms for the charm he had. She would not spoil him so. She would not let him think he said quaint things and so for quaintness' sake or the attention he won by them, set out his childish wits to gain approval. Nothing should he wish to gain. All that he gave of himself he must give without thought of its reward.
"God's never hungry or thirsty, except through us," she said. "God is in pain when we're in pain. He's happy when we're happy. Everything we feel is what God is feeling because He's everywhere and close to all of us."
John's eyes cast downwards to the bucket where the milk was frothing white.