“The world is so full of misery anyway, that we ought to do the best we can to make it less,” she said at last in a musing tone, as if her thoughts had unconsciously taken on speech. She had always appealed to him strongly, and never more so than in this softly uttered abstraction,—that it was an abstraction added to its power with him.
He could find no words for reply, but picked up his hammer and nail-box, and slouched along the road by her side, listening without a word to her talk.
“Christ was patient, and bore with his enemies, surely we ought to bear with our—friends.” She went on adapting her steps to his. He took off his torn straw hat and wiped his face on his sleeve, being much embarrassed and ashamed. Not knowing how to meet such argument, he kept silent.
“How is Mrs. Burns?” said Lily at length, determined to make him speak. The delicate meaning in the emphasis laid on is did not escape him.
“Oh, she’s all right,—I mean she’s done her work jest the same as ever. I don’t see her much—”
“I didn’t know—I was afraid she was sick. Sadie said she was acting strangely.”
“No, she’s well enough—but,—”
“But what is the trouble? Won’t you let me help you, won’t you?”
“Can’t anybody help us. We’ve got ‘o fight it out, I s’pose,” he replied, a gloomy note of resentment creeping into his voice. “She’s ben in a devil of a temper f’r a week.”
“Haven’t you been in the same kind of a temper too?” demanded Lily, firmly, but kindly. “I think most troubles of this kind come from bad temper on both sides. Don’t you? Have you done your share at being kind and patient?”