"No letters!" said Mrs. Wilson.
"No, none! I must just wait another day to hear fra my lad. It's very dree work, waiting!" said Alice.
Margaret's words came into Mary's mind. Every one has their time and kind of waiting.
"If I but knew he were safe, and not drowned!" spoke Alice. "If I but knew he were drowned, I would ask grace to say, Thy will be done. It's the waiting."
"It's hard work to be patient to all of us," said Mary; "I know I find it so, but I did not know one so good as you did, Alice; I shall not think so badly of myself for being a bit impatient, now I've heard you say you find it difficult."
The idea of reproach to Alice was the last in Mary's mind; and Alice knew it was. Nevertheless, she said,
"Then, my dear, I ask your pardon, and God's pardon, too, if I've weakened your faith, by showing you how feeble mine was. Half our life's spent in waiting, and it ill becomes one like me, wi' so many mercies, to grumble. I'll try and put a bridle o'er my tongue, and my thoughts too." She spoke in a humble and gentle voice, like one asking forgiveness.
"Come, Alice," interposed Mrs. Wilson, "don't fret yoursel for e'er a trifle wrong said here or there. See! I've put th' kettle on, and you and Mary shall ha' a dish o' tea in no time."
So she bustled about, and brought out a comfortable-looking substantial loaf, and set Mary to cut bread and butter, while she rattled out the tea-cups—always a cheerful sound.
Just as they were sitting down, there was a knock heard at the door, and without waiting for it to be opened from the inside, some one lifted the latch, and in a man's voice asked, if one George Wilson lived there?