"Oh! different things. They may be sick, or they may fall down stairs, or break their bones."
"I see. Then they go up to God to get mended.—Marget!"
"Ay."
"I wish Mother would get God to mend her smile."
"What's that?"
"She used to have such a pretty smile, and now she only smiles when I make her."
"Then see that thou dost make her smile often. Perchance 'tis thus that God will mend it. Come, Cecil, she will be waiting for us even now, and we shall catch the rheum if we sit longer on this damp ground."
Cecil, always glad to be in motion, jumped up, and led the way home, his yellow curls bobbing along the path, as good as a lantern in the gloaming, as Margaret Brent told herself.
At the cottage door Elinor stood bathed in the crimson light that flooded earth and sky. Her pale cheek had caught the rosy glow, and the damp February air had twisted her hair in soft clinging rings about her face. As she caught sight of Margaret and Cecil her lips parted in a welcoming smile, and she came down the path to meet them with arms outstretched.