"Can I help my will?" said Rotha, bringing up her old question.
"There is the dinner-bell," said Mrs. Mowbray. "If I can get a little time this evening, I will try to shew you the answer to your question. I must go now, my dear. Read your New Testament."
Rotha curled herself up on her couch, and by the light of the kennal coal did read her Testament; full of delight that it was hers, and full of comfort in the hope that after all there would be a way for her out of her difficulties.
Then came her dinner. Such a nice dinner it was; and served with a delicacy and order which charmed Rotha. She eat it alone, but missing nothing; having a sense of shelter and hiding from all roughnesses of people and things, that was infinitely soothing. She eat her dinner, and hoped for Mrs. Mowbray's return. Waiting however in vain. Mrs. Mowbray came not. The room was bright; the fire burned; the cheerful shine was upon everything; Rotha was full of comfort in things external; if she only could settle and quiet this question in her heart. Yes, this question was everything. Were she but a child of God, secure and established,—yes, not that only, but pure and good,—like Mr. Digby; then, all would be right. Then she would be happy. With that question unsettled, Rotha did not feel that even Mrs. Mowbray could make her so.
Late in the evening Mrs. Mowbray came. Her arms were full of packages.
"I could not get free before," she said, as she shut the door behind her. "I had an errand—and then company kept me. Well, my dear! have you had a pleasant evening, all alone?"
"I like to be alone sometimes," Rotha replied a little evasively.
"Do you! Now I like company; unless I have something to do. Perhaps that was your case, eh?"
"Yes, ma'am, it was."
"And did you accomplish it?—what you had to do."