Angel had a great deal to think of as she walked home that morning with her empty basket. She was very quiet all day as she was looking after the children and turning the mangle—so quiet that her mother asked her if she were ill. But Angel said, No, she was quite well, and turned the mangle quietly again. But when the other children were in bed, and she and her mother were alone, Angel said:
"Mother, do you know how old you are?"
"Dear me, let me see," said her mother. "I was just nineteen when I got married to your father. I know I was just nineteen then, because I remember my old aunt said, 'You're young enough, my lass, not twenty yet. You'd better not be in a hurry.' Well, I was nineteen then, and, let me see, I believe we've been married eight years next month. Nineteen and eight, what's that? Count it on your fingers, Angel."
"Twenty-seven, mother," said little Angel, when she had carefully counted it twice over. "Twenty-seven years old! Then Jesus has been knocking at your door twenty-seven years! What a long time!"
"Oh, you're after that again, are you?" said her mother. "I wish I could remember what it means."
"Miss Douglas told me," said Angel; and she repeated, as well as she could, the conversation in the little sitting-room.
"Well, to be sure," said the mother, "it's very wonderful to think He waits so long; I'm afraid I've been very bad to Him."
"Won't you let Him in to-night, mother?"
"Oh, child! I'm too busy," she said; "there's so much to do. There's the children, and your father, and the mangle to look after, and always dinner to cook, and things to clear away, and such lots of clothes to wash, and your father's shirts to iron. I've no time to be good, Angel."
"But Miss Douglas said if you don't let Him into your heart and love Him, you won't ever live with Him and the angels in heaven."