"I don't see where's the beginning of the way yet," said the farmer.
"That," said Faith. "Be the servant of Jesus Christ and own it; and then go to him for all you want. He is good for all."
There was a pause.
"I s'pose you've been goin' on in that way a good while."
"A good while—yes,"—Faith almost whispered.
"Well, when you are goin' to him sometimes, ask somethin' for me,—will you?"
He had bent over, leaning on his knees, to speak it in a lower growl than ordinary. Faith bowed her head at first, unwilling to speak; but tears somehow started, and the drops followed each other, as she sat gazing into the black fireplace,—she could not help it—till a perfect shower of weeping brought her face into her hands and stirred her not very strong frame. It stirred the farmer, robust as he was in spite of illness; he shifted his chair most uneasily, and finally laid down his head on his folded arms on the table. Faith was the first to speak.
"Mr. Simlins, who takes care of you?"
"Ugh!" (a most unintelligible grunt,) "they all do it by turns—Jenny and all of 'em."
"What have you had for dinner to-day?"