“I never looked at the sea,” said Jill.
“Nor have I; folks say as there is nought like it. I believe we might give ourselves a week’s holiday. I has put by a few pounds. Wot’s the matter, Jill? You’re shivering again.”
“I wor thinking,” said Jill, “that maybe I were wrong about God. Maybe He ain’t up there.”
“Why, Jill, what do you mean? And I do declare you have tears in your eyes. What is the matter, my little gel?”
“Ef God was there,” said Jill, “ef the beautiful God I picter were there, He’d give us one perfect happy evening—oh, I know He would, I know He would!”
“And ain’t this evening perfect and happy, Jill?”
“I can’t keep the pain out,” said Jill in a low voice. “I ha’ tried, but it won’t stay away. I’m thinking of mother, for one thing; she ain’t very well.”
“But we’ll both take care on her when I’m your mate: and ef pain do come, we’ll bear it together. There ain’t a doubt as there’s a heap of suffering in the world, and it seems to me as if it worn’t right for us, however happy we wor, to shut our eyes to it. Why, look at me, I wor fit to burst my heart wid misery this morning, and yet when I were running up them stairs at Howard’s Buildings and thought that with each step I were getting nearer to you, it seemed as ef I could have shouted for joy. I take it that I wor in one sense selfish—in another, no.” Nat looked at Jill as he spoke. For a moment she was silent, then she said in a husky voice—
“Why were you miserable this morning, Nat?”