“If I have not, it is well, perhaps, that I should have. And I am ready to engage in the struggle, though I do not see why it need be a bitter one, but just a healthful one.”
“You have a healthful nature, dear, that is certain. As for me, I sometimes think I am falling weak in body and in mind,” sighed the curate.
“No, no, dear Jimmy; not weak, only overworked and weary. Why, you have not had a vacation for eighteen years, to my certain knowledge. So long a strain might have made an idiot or a ‘damp, unpleasant corpse’ of any man less strong and brave than yourself,” said the wife with affectionate fervor.
“It helps me to see your faith in me, dear,” he sighed as he took her hand and pressed it.
“As for me, Jimmy, I am glad that you will be obliged to rest for a few weeks or months. Don’t doubt. You must rest. It is our turn now. Mine and Jennie’s. We must work.”
“You! What in this world could you do?”
“A good many things. We—Jennie and I—could teach English and French, music and drawing, to young ladies, or A B C’s to little children. Failing that, we could take in dressmaking or plain sewing. Failing that, I could go out as sick nurse, and Jennie could do up fine laces.”
“Hetty, you talk wildly.”
“Not at all. Unless you preach wildly. I am only going to put into practice what you preach. You tell the artisans and agricultural laborers that work is worship.”
“I would not mind your teaching——” slowly began the curate.