"It comes out in everything," Rotha went on. "It is not in giving only; she is forever making everybody happy, if she can. There are some people you cannot make happy. But nursing them when they are sick, and comforting them when they are in trouble, and helping them when they are in difficulty, and supplying them when they are in need, and if they are none of those things, then just throwing flowers in their lap,—that is Mrs. Mowbray. Yes, and she can reprove them when they are wrong, too; and that is a harder service than either."
"In how many of all these ways has she done you good, Rotha? if I may ask."
"It is only pleasant to answer, Mr. Digby. In all of them." And Rotha's eyes filled full, and her cheek took fire.
"Not 'supplying need' also?"
"O yes! O that was one of the first things her kind hand did for me. Mr.
Southwode, do you know, many people criticise her for the use she makes
of her money; they call her extravagant, and indiscreet, and all that.
They say she ought to lay up her money."
"Quite natural."
"But it hurt me sometimes."
"It need not hurt you. There is another judgment, which is of more importance. 'There is, that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.' And there is, 'that layeth up treasure for himself, and is not rich towards God.' But the world must weigh according to its balances, and they are too small to take heaven in."
A pause followed. With the going back to Mrs. Mowbray and all the memories connected with her, a sort of mist of association began to rise in Rotha's mind, to dim the new brightness of the present time. Uneasy half recollections of words or manner, or perhaps rather of the impression that words and manner had left behind them, began to come floating in upon her joyousness. The silence lasted.
"What did you learn with Mrs. Mowbray?" Mr. Southwode asked at length.