“I do know,” was the answer, “but I see no help for it—if a thing has to be done at last, it may as well and better be done at first.”
“I am thinking Amos will fight it to the end,” said Mrs. Scott calmly.
“But what folly it is!” exclaimed Miss Moffat.
“Like enough; I wouldn’t be so ill bred as to contradict you, Miss, even if I could.”
“But it is impossible you can be happy or comfortable living in this sort of way.”
“Happy, comfortable,” repeated the poor woman, then added with sudden vehemence, “And who is it that has made us unhappy and uncomfortable, but that villain Brady? It’ll come home to him though; sure as sure, Miss Grace, it will. We may not live to see it, but the day will come that others will mind what Brady done to us and say, ‘Serve him right,’ no matter what trouble is laid upon him.”
“But you do not wish any harm to happen to him?” suggested Grace, who, having no personal feud with Mr. Brady, naturally felt shocked at Mrs. Scott’s bitterness of expression.
“Don’t I?” retorted the woman. “It would be blessed news if one came in now and said, ‘Brady is lying stiff and stark out in the field yonder.’”
“Hush, hush, hush!” entreated Grace, laying her hand on the lean unlovely arm which had once been plump and comely. “Oh! I wish I could talk to you as I want to talk. I wish I could say good things as other people are able. I wish I could persuade you to bear your heavy burden patiently, feeling certain God in His own good time will lighten it for you. I cannot think there is any reality in religion if it does not support us in trials like these, and you are a religious woman, dear Mrs. Scott. I remember, as if it was yesterday, the Bible stories you used to tell me when I was a bit of a thing wearing mourning for the first time.”
Mrs. Scott’s face began to work, then her eyes filled with tears, then one slowly trickled down her cheek, which she wiped away with the corner of her checked apron, then with a catching sob, she said,—