“Go to,—wert thou at the Cross t’ other morrow? Methought I saw thy face in the throng.”
A light broke over the face, but Agnes only said, “Ay.”
“How liked thee yon Friar’s discourse?”
“It liked me well.”
“Marry, thus said Cicely Marvell, that dwelleth by me. But for me, I saw none so much therein to make ado o’er. ‘God loveth men’—ay, to be sure He doth so: and ‘we should love God’—why, of course we so should, and do. Forsooth, what then, I pray you?”
“Why, then, much comfort, as meseemeth,” answered Agnes.
“Comfort!” repeated Mrs Flint, looking at her. “Ay, poor soul, I dare say thou hast need. But I lack no comfort at this present, the blessed Sacrament be thanked! I have enough and to spare.”
And, half laughing, with a farewell nod, Mrs Flint took up her full pail, and trudged away. With some surprise Agnes realised that to this cheerful, healthy, prosperous woman, the ray of light which was making her whole soul glad, was not worth opening the windows to behold; the wine of Paradise which brimmed her cup with joy, was only common water. Perhaps, before that light could make a happy heart glad, other lights must be put out; before the water could be changed to wine, other conduits must run dry. It was well for Agnes Stone that she had nothing wherewith to quench her thirst but the cup of salvation, and no light to shine upon her pathway but the light of life.