“Aunt Affy, it is only this,” began Marion, again, flushing a little with the effort of bringing her secret into spoken words. “I want somebody to do good to; I have my class in Sunday school, and that is a great deal, but it doesn’t satisfy—and there must be somebody; if it were not so, I wouldn’t be so hungry to do it. I say it with all humility; I know there is something in me to give, and it is growing. But I don’t know how to find somebody.”
Judith’s fingers dropped the long, red strip; it would be a story to hear Aunt Affy tell Miss Marion how to find somebody.
“Then, you are just ready to hear my story.”
“I knew you had it; I saw it in your face.”
“It is one of the true stories, the stories as true as Bible stories, that you and I are living every day.”
How Judith’s face glowed. Was she living a true story? As real as the Bible stories?
“God helps and hears now, as quickly, as willingly, as sufficiently, as he did in the old Bible times; we live in the new Bible times. I heard a woman once wishing for a new Bible, the old Bible seemed written so long ago, and about people who lived so long ago. We are making a new Bible; our life is a new Acts of the Disciples.”
And she was in it? How could Judith think of carpet rags? Unless carpet rags were in it, too.
“I like that,” said Marion, “for Acts has been called the Gospel of the Risen Lord, and we know He is risen, and with us in the Holy Spirit.”
Aunt Affy was silent a moment; like Judith her fingers stayed and would not work.