"If I could only keep house," she mused. "Frank imagines I know nothing of cooking. I'd just like to have him eat some bread and puffy biscuits of my making. I am so glad I never told him that I took lessons of Dinah all one winter before we were married. I'll surprise that boy some day with my knowledge. If it were not for the horrid heat of the cook-stove, I know I could keep house nicely, and save money, too, I dare say; but, my head never would endure a hot kitchen, I suppose."
Just here the clock chimed out ten, reminding Faith of an engagement at the dressmaker's. Leaving Daisy with her young nurse, she was soon on her way, not to "Madame Aubrey's," but to plain Mrs. Macpherson's, who lived up two flights of stairs, and was nevertheless "a good fitter," and kept her rooms and herself as neat as wax.
While Faith waited, and the busy shears slipped and snipped her wrapper, she had time to look about her. The rooms wore such a pleasant, home-like air; they were cool and comfortable-looking, and not a fly to be seen. Faith, reared to the finest and best of everything, now looked with almost covetous eyes on this poor, plain home.
"What a cosy place you have here, Mrs. Macpherson," she said, and she wearily leaned her head back in the comfortable old rocking-chair, newly covered with chintz. "It is so nice, I would like to stay."
Mrs. Macpherson glanced up in surprise, the tones were such tired, sad ones. She noticed for the first time the dark rings under Faith's eyes, and the eyes themselves looked suspiciously red. Her motherly heart went out to the "poor young thing" straightway.
"Something troubles you, child," she said, "or you don't feel well.
Can't I help you?"
The tender tones almost made the tears come anew; and Faith, contrary to her reticent nature, found herself telling kind-hearted Mrs. Macpherson just what did trouble her.
"Poor dear!" Mrs. Macpherson said, "that is hard; if I can't help you, I know one who can. Why don't you go straight to the dear Lord and tell him all about it? You see everything is at his disposal. You know the way to him, don't you?"
Faith nodded assent, and then said despairingly, "It never seemed to me that God would condescend to think about the small affairs of our everyday life."
"But, Mrs. Vincent, you surely read in the Word how he numbers the hairs of our heads, and he says himself if he gives thought to such little things as lilies and grass, he'll surely look after us. Doesn't the Good Shepherd care when the sheep are worried? Indeed he does. Would you stay up-stairs when you heard your dear baby crying? Oh! but you'd run fast to her. He says himself that he is our Father, and we are his children, and is he going to stay away off up in heaven and not care about our everyday troubles. No, just you tell him, and believe that he'll help you in some way, and he surely will. You see I can tell all about this because I've proved it. I know it is so, and it's not every minister that knows that. We had a real young minister to preach for us last Sunday; he preached about God's care for his people, and I just thought to myself, 'If you had ever been in a real tight place, my lad, and the Lord had come and helped you out, you wouldn't be standing there reading off pretty sounding words to us; you'd just tell it to us, hearty like, as if you meant it.' But here I am, going on just like a clock; I beg your pardon, Mrs. Vincent."