“The Lord will not go to the Isle of Wight,” she said, quietly.
Oh, if I could feel as they do—that God is everywhere, and that everywhere He is my Friend! And then, my Uncle Drummond’s words come back upon me. But how do you trust Christ? What have you to do? If people would make things plain!
Well, it looks as if I should have plenty of time for learning. For it seems pretty certain, whatever else is doubtful, that I am a fixture at Abbotscliff.
I wonder if things always happen just when one has made up one’s mind that they are not going to happen?
About ten o’clock this morning, Flora and I were sewing in the parlour, just as we have been doing every day since I came here. My Uncle Drummond was out, and Angus was fixing a white cockade in his bonnet. Helen Raeburn put in her head at the door.
“If you please, Miss Cary,” said she, “my cousin Samuel wad be fain to speak wi’ ye.”
For one moment I could not think who she meant. What had I to do with her cousin Samuel? And then, all at once, it flashed upon me that Helen’s cousin Samuel was our own old Sam.
“Sam!” I almost screamed. “Has he come from Brocklebank? Oh, is anything wrong at home?”
“There’s naething wrang ava, Miss Cary, but a hantle that’s richt—only ane thing belike—and that’s our loss mair than yours. But will ye see Samuel?”