"Never mind," said Amy, "it is never any trouble to wait for Stephen; but it will not be long now—that must be he coming down the chestnut walk."
Stephen's hobbling pace was exchanged for a species of trot, as he perceived Amy already mounted; and he came up to her with a thousand apologies for the delay. "But you know, Miss Amy, 'tis not very often I can see you now, so I thought I would make bold for once. And please to tell me now how your mamma is, for she doesn't come here as she used; and the folks in the village say she's getting as white as a sheet."
"I don't think mamma is as well or as strong as she used to be, Stephen," replied Amy; "but she does not complain much, only she soon gets tired."
"Oh!" said Stephen, shaking his head, "India, India,—'tis all India, Miss Amy. Why English people shouldn't be contented to stay on English ground is more than I can guess. A nice, comfortable cottage in a good pasture country, such as this, with a few ups and downs in it to make a variety, is all I should ever wish to have. I want nothing that's to be got from foreign parts; for it's always been my maxim that one penny in England is worth twenty out of it."
"But," replied Amy, "some people are obliged to go, Stephen. I am sure papa would not have done it if he could have helped it."
"Help or no help, 'tis what I can't understand," said Stephen. "Not that I mean any disrespect to the colonel, Miss Amy, but it grieves me to hear the people talk about your poor mamma's pale face."
"I don't think she looks so very pale," said Amy, feeling uncomfortable, and yet hardly owning it to herself.
"The dwellers in the same house are not those to see the change," replied the old man; "but I don't mean to be vexing your young heart before its time. Sorrow comes soon enough to all; and," he added, reverently, "He who sends it will send His strength with it."
"That is what mamma says," answered Amy. "She is always begging me not to look forward; but I do long to do it very often; and she would be so happy if she could be sure when papa would come back."
"Look, Miss Amy," said Stephen, gathering a daisy from the grass, "do you see that? Now, you might try, and so might I, and so might all the great folks that ever lived,—we might all try all our lives, and we never could make such a thing as that; and yet, you know, 'tis but a tiny flower that nobody thinks about; and sometimes, when I get wishing that things were different, I take up a daisy and look at it, till it seems most wonderful how it should be made, and how it should live; and then it comes into my head how many millions there are like it, and how many plants, and trees, and insects, and animals, and living souls too, and that God made them all,—all that are here, and all that are up above (for I suppose there is no harm in thinking that there may be such); and so at last, do you see, I don't only know, but I can feel, that He is wise; and my heart gets quite light again, for I am sure that He knows what is best; and as He has not told us what is to come, 'tis but folly to wish about it."