"It was hard to see my mother tired with the work, and Jean could not get to school"; and she could go no further.
"But that all passed away?" I asked, after a pause.
"Oh, yes!" and her smile says much. It was the memory of her triumph that brought her smile, and it illumined her face.
My words came slowly. I could not comfort where comfort was not needed. I could not pity, facing a smile like that; and it seemed hard to rejoice over one whose days were often full of pain. But it came to me to say:
"He has done much for you; and you are doing much for Him."
"Yes: He has done much for me." But she would go no further. Her service seemed small to her, but to me it seemed great and high. We, in our full blood and unbroken life, have our work, our common work, but this high work is not for us—we are not good enough. This He keeps for those His love makes pure by pain. This would almost make one content to suffer.
Next morning we all went to the little log school, where the Communion service was to be held—all but the father and Katie.
"You have done me much good," I could not but say before I left; "and you are a blessing in your home."
The color rose in her pale cheek, but she only said:
"I am glad you were sent to us."