"Then you don't know?" said Rotha. "And perhaps we shall not! But, mother, that would be dreadful, if we did not like it!"
"I hope you would help me to bear it."
"I!" said Rotha. "You don't want help to bear anything; do you, mother?"
An involuntary gush of tears came at this appeal; they were not suffered to overflow.
"I should not be able to bear much without help, Rotha. Want help? yes, I want it—and I have it. God sends nothing to his children but he sends help too; else," said Mrs. Carpenter, brushing her hand across her eyes, "they would not last long! But, Rotha, lie means that we should help each other too."
"I help you?"
"Yes, certainly. You can, a great deal."
"That seems very funny. Mother, what is wrong about aunt Serena?" said
Rotha, following a very direct chain of ideas.
"I hope nothing is wrong about her."
And Mrs. Carpenter, in her gentle, unselfish charity, meant it honestly; her little daughter was less gentle and perhaps more logical.