“What are you thinking of?”
“I was thinking, dear—” the words came softly through the darkness—“that God in His own good time will help you.”
“He cannot,” was the reply, spoken sharply and quickly.
“We shall see,” and Grace sat down by one of the windows, while Nettie resumed her purposeless walk, backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards enough to drive a bystander to madness.
After a time the door opened.
“I have made you some tea, mem. Will you come down or will I bring it up to you?”
Nettie never answered. Neither by sign nor token did she give evidence of having heard a word.
“I will come down,” said Grace after a moment’s pause, sufficient to permit Mrs. Brady to reply if she would. “Should you not like a light, Nettie?” she asked with a natural hesitation about making such a suggestion in another person’s house.
“I hate light,” was the answer.
“How long has she been like that?” whispered Miss Moffat as the door closed between her and the blue-eyed, golden-haired Nettie of the long-ago past.