As a general thing Mrs Hume left her little daughter’s “why” unanswered, only trying to beguile her from such thoughts to the enjoyment of what was left to her in her quiet life. To-day her heart was sore for the child, knowing well that her lot would not seem more easy to bear as the years went on.
“My darling,” said she, “it is God’s will.”
“Yes, mother; but why should it be God’s will just with me? Surely when He can do anything, He might give me a chance with the rest. Or else He should just make me content as I am.”
“And so He will, dear, in time. You must ask Him, and leave all in His hand.”
“Oh! yes. I must just leave it. There is nothing else to do. As to asking—I ay ask to be made strong, and to walk about on my ain feet. And then—wouldna I just serve Him!”
The last words were spoken to Allison, whose kind, sad eyes had been resting on her all the time. And Allison answered:
“But surely it may be His will that you should see the full burn and the snawy braes, if it be your mother’s will! A’ the bairns are better since the frost came, and I might carry wee Marjorie as far as the fit o’ the Wind Hill for a change.”
“Oh! mother! mother! Let me go. Allie carries me so strong and easy. And I might have Mrs Esselmont’s warm shawl round me, and the soft little hat, and I would never feel the cold. Oh! mother! mother!”
“I might at least take her to the end o’ the lane; and if she should be cauld, or weary, or if the cough came on, I could be hame with her in a minute.”
Though only half convinced of the wisdom of such a plan, her mother consented; and by and by the happy child, wrapped warmly, her pale face looking very bright and sweet in the soft little hat, laid herself back in Allison’s arms with a sigh of content.