Winifred did not ask what this meant. She felt that she was listening to words that, if mysterious, were to be pondered in silence.
"You know the poor thing whose husband is always tipsy—drunken Job they call him—that you've seen listening to Mr. Cameron?—and that weakly Mr. McNider, with the little boy?"
"Yes," assented Winifred.
"He told them," whispered the housekeeper, "that when he was agonising in prayer it came into his mind to wait until August this year. He hasn't any assurance what it may have meant; but that may come later, and p'r'aps the days may be told him; and he's awaiting, and we're awaiting too. There, that's all I have to tell, child, and I must be going."
She gathered her lean figure up from the hillock, and took up her pail.
As for the girl Winifred, a terrible feeling of fear had come over her. All the bright world of sun and flowers seemed suddenly overshadowed by the lowering cloud of an awful possibility. She would no more have allowed herself to be left alone in that sunny corner of the glad spring morning than she would have remained alone where visible danger beset her. Her face bathed in the sudden tears that came so easily to her girlish eyes, she sprang like a fawn after her companion and grasped her skirt as she followed.
"How you take on!" sighed the woman, turning. "Do you mean to say you ain't, glad?"
"I'm frightened," gasped the girl.
"And you been confirmed this spring! What did it mean to you if you ain't glad there's ever such a little chance of perhaps seeing Him before the year's out."
They both climbed the fence, handing over the milk-pail between them.
When they had got on to the road and must part, the housekeeper spoke.