She thought she knew what the grief was; but how to touch it? She sat still and silent, and perhaps even so spoke her sympathy better than any words could have done it. And perhaps Mrs. Barclay felt it so, for she presently went on after a manner which was not like her usual reserve.
"O that wind! O that wind! It sweeps away all that has been between, and puts home and my childhood before me. But it makes me home-sick, Lois!"
"Cannot you go on with the hymn, dear Mrs. Barclay? You know how it goes,—
'My half day's work is done;
And this is all my part—
I give a patient God
My patient heart.'"
"What does he want with it?" said the weary woman beside her.
"What? O, it is the very thing he wants of us, and of you; the one thing he cares about! That we would love him."
"I have not done a half day's work," said the other; "and my heart is not patient. It is only tired, and dead."
"It is not that," said Lois. "How very, very good you have been to
Madge and me!"
"You have been good to me. And, as your grandmother quoted this morning, no thanks are due when we only love those who love us. My heart does not seem to be alive, Lois. You had better go to your aunt's without me, dear. I should not be good company."
"But I cannot leave you so!" exclaimed Lois; and she left her seat and sank upon her knees at her friend's side, still clasping the hand that had taken hers. "Dear Mrs. Barclay, there is help."