She thought he looked thoughtfuller than ever when he came.
That might have been fancy.
"I don't know, Miss Elizabeth," he said, taking her hand as he had done in the morning, and answering her face. "We must wait yet. — How have you borne the day?"
"I have borne it by the help of your book," she said looking down at it and trembling.
"You could have no better help," he said with a little sigh, as he turned away to the table, — "except that of the Author of it."
The tea was very silent, for even Winthrop did not talk much; and very sad, for Elizabeth could hardly hold her head up.
"Mr. Winthrop," she said when he rose, — "can you give me a minute or two before you go? — I want to ask you a question."
"Certainly," — he said; and waited, both standing, while she opened his bible and found the place he had shewed her in the morning. She shewed it to him now.
"This — I don't quite understand it. — I see what is spoken of, and the need of it, — but — how can I make it my own?"
She looked up as she put the question, with most earnest eyes, and lips that only extreme determination kept from giving way. He looked at her, and at his book.
"By giving your trust to the Maker of the promise."