"To distinguish myself!" said Rufus, — "if I can, — in some way."
"I am afraid it is no better than that with me, mother," said Winthrop; "though perhaps I should rather say my desire is to be distinguished."
"What's the difference?" said his brother.
"I don't know. I think I feel a difference."
"I am not going to preach to you now," said Mrs. Landholm, and yet the slight failing of her voice did it — how lastingly! — "I cannot, — and I need not. Only one word. If you sow and reap a crop that will perish in the using, what will you do when it is gone? — and remember it is said of the redeemed, that their works do follow them. Remember that. — One word more," she said after a pause. "Let me have it to say in that day, — 'Of all which thou gavest me have I lost none'! —"
Not preach to them? And what was her hidden face and bowed head? — a preaching the like of which they were never to hear from mortal voices. But not a word, not a lisp, fell from one of them. Winifred had run off; the rest hardly stirred; till Mrs. Landholm rose up, and gravely kissing one and the other prepared to leave the room.
"Where is Winifred?" said her brother suddenly missing her.
"I don't know. I am sure she is somewhere praying for you."
They said no more, even to each other, that night.
Nor much the next day. It was the time for doing, not thinking. There was not indeed much to do, except to get off; but that seemed a great deal. It was done at last. Mrs. Landholm from the window of the kitchen watched them get into the wagon and drive off; and then she sat down by the window to cry.