The Superintendent, left alone at the table, rang for the maid. Her voice was carefully calm as she ordered the evening meal. But her eyes were just a bit misty as she looked into the maid's dull face.
"Mrs. Volsky," she said suddenly, "love must have its way! And love is—"
The maid looked at her blankly. Obviously she did not understand. But, seeing her neat apron, her clean hands, her carefully combed hair, one could forgive her vague expression.
"What say?" she questioned.
The Superintendent laughed wearily, "Anyway," she remarked, "Ella likes her work, doesn't she? And Jim? And Bennie is going to be a great man, some day—isn't he? And Lily may be made well—quite well! You should be a glad woman, Mrs. Volsky!"
Pride flamed up, suddenly, in the maid's face—blotting out the dullness.
"God," she said simply and—marvel of marvels—her usually toneless voice was athrob with love—"God is good!" She went out, with a tray full of dishes.
Her chin in the palm of her hand, the Superintendent stared off into space. If she was thinking of a little blond child—lying in a hospital bed—if she was thinking of a man with sleek hair, trying to make a new start—if she was thinking of a girl with dark, flashing eyes, and a small, grubby-fingered boy, her expression did not mirror her thought. Only once she spoke, as she was folding her napkin. And then—
"They're both very young," she murmured, a shade wistfully. Perhaps she was remembering the springtime of her own youth.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Island of Faith, by Margaret E. Sangster