"But aunt Caxton," said Eleanor a little doubtfully,—"he gives it in the use of means?"
"Do you think he blesses the use of means he has forbidden?"
Eleanor was silent a moment.
"Aunt Caxton, people do get rich so, do they not?"
"'The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich,'" said Mrs. Caxton, contentedly,—"'and he addeth no sorrow with it.' That is the sort of riches I like best."
Eleanor did not answer; a kind of moisture came up in her eyes, for she felt poor in those riches.
"It is mere want of faith, Eleanor, that pleads such a reason," Mrs. Caxton went on. "It is taking the power to get wealth into our own hands. If it is in God's hands, it is just as easy certainly for him to give it to us in the obedient use of means as in the disobedient use of them; and much more likely that he will. Many a man has become poor by his disobedience, for one that has been allowed to prosper awhile in spite of it. If the statistics were made up, men would see. Meanwhile, never anybody trusted the Lord and was confounded."
"Then what do you do with the seventh day's milk, aunt Caxton?"
"I make butter of it. But I would pour it away down the river, Eleanor, before I would make it an excuse for disobeying God."
This was said without any heat, but as the quietest of conclusions. Eleanor stood silent, wondering at her aunt's cheeses and notions together. She was in a new world, surely. Yet a secret feeling of respect was every moment mounting higher.