"No, Hester?"
"I want work fit for me," I said, almost fiercely. "God made me for a good, high purpose."
"I know," cheerfully. "We'll find it, dear: no man's work is kept back from him. We'll find it together."
But under the cheerfulness there was a sad quiet, as of one who has lost something forever, and tries to hide the loss from himself. There was a moment's silence, then I got up, and pushed him down into my chair. I took the gray head in my arms, leaned it on my shoulder, held the thin bits of hair in my hand.
"Why, why, child!"
"Call me Hetty, Daniel. I'd like to think that name belonged to me yet."
"Surely, dear. Why! but—this is just the old times again, Hetty! You'll be bringing me my slippers again."
"Yes, I will."
I went to the cupboard, and brought them, sitting down on the floor as he put them on. Another of the old foolish tricks gone long ago. There was a look on his face which had not been there this many a day. He had such a credulous heart, so easy to waken into happiness. I took his wrist in my bony hands, to raise myself; the muscles were like steel, the cording veins throbbing with health; there was an indescribable rest in the touch.
"Daniel," I said, looking him full in the face, "I'd like to have no mission in God's world. I'd like to give up my soul, and forget everything but you."