"That's the way I have my times. But I do not have my happy times by myself, you see."
"Did nothing else trouble you?"
"No; oh, no! Nothing like that. Father's death was not a trouble. I went with him as far as I could—I almost wanted to go all the way."
"And there was nothing else to hurt you?" he asked very earnestly.
"Oh, no; why should there be?" she answered, meeting his questioning eyes frankly. "Do you know of anything else that should have troubled me?"
"No, nothing else. But girls do have sometimes. Didn't your mother help you any? She helps other people."
"I could not tell her. I could not talk about it. She only thought I was ill, and sent for a physician. Perhaps I did worry myself into feeling ill."
"You take life easily," he said.
"Do I? I like to take it as God gives it to me; not before he gives it to me. This slowness—or faith—or whatever it is, is one of my inheritances from my blessed father. Who is it that says, 'I'd see to it pretty sharp that I didn't hurry Providence.' That has helped me."
"I wish it would some one else," he said grimly.