Mrs Grattan was with her, paying a long day’s visit; for they had been all the morning talking cheerfully of many things.
“Our winter is long,” she said.
“Oh, so long and dreary!” sighed Mrs Morely. “No, you must not think me discontented and unthankful,” she added, meeting Mrs Grattan’s grave looks. “Only a little homesick now and then. If I were sure that all was well with—” She hesitated.
“‘I will trust, and not be afraid,’” said Mrs Grattan, softly.
They had not spoken much to one another about their troubles,—these two women. Mrs Morely’s reserve, even at the time of little Ben’s death, had never given way so far as to permit her to speak of her husband’s faults and her own trials. And Mrs Grattan’s sympathy, though deep, had been silent—expressed by deeds rather than by words. She knew well how full of fear for her husband the poor wife’s heart had been all the winter; but she could not approach the subject until she herself introduced it.
“‘I will trust, and not be afraid,’” said Mrs Morely, repeating her friend’s words. “I can do naught else; and not always that.”
“‘Lord, increase our faith!’” murmured Dolly.
There was a pause, during which Mrs Morely went about, busy with some household matter. When she sat down again, she said:
“You must not think I am pining for home. If I were sure that it is well with my husband, nothing else would matter.”
“You have good hope that it is well with him,” said Mrs Grattan.