Adam assented, and said his missis was very clever in her way. Then he expressed his gratification at seeing that the very little ones had taken to Sarah so nicely.
"We shall get on all right, no fear. Maggie's quite a little woman, and can tell me where everything is, and what mother does when she's at home."
Sarah amazed the children by calling them "darlings," and, instead of bidding them sharply "do this or that," she said, "Maggie, dear, please shut the door," and so on.
It was evident that a kind word would go as far and produce as immediate obedience as a sharp one.
After tea, Adam strolled out by himself. He was not in the mood for company, and the little people were happily employed at home. Sarah Evans was telling nursery rhymes to the three youngest, and the eldest two were learning their lessons for the morrow.
Their father's mind was full of the parting with his wife, and the words which had preceded it. It had set him pondering whether they had not both missed their way somehow, and got off on a wrong track.
He certainly had with regard to Maggie, who, in spite of her sharp temper, had kept the warmest corner in her heart for him alone.
Who could doubt her love for the children? And yet she often called them "the plagues of her life."
How nice she could be when she had her best side out! If she were always, or even often like what she had been during those few precious minutes in the railway carriage, what a little heaven their home might be! Was there no way of bringing about such a state of things?
Thus mused Adam, and then it seemed as if the words of Richard Evans and the testimony of Mr. Drummond came with fresh force. Both of these ascribed the brightness of their lives to religion. They were happy men, of this there could be no doubt.