“Better wear out than rust out.” And Franceline shrugged her shoulders; she had learned the expressive French trick from her father.
The priest bent his clear eyes on her for a second without speaking. She read, disappointment, and perhaps mild reproach, in them.
“I am sorry I said that, father; I did not mean to complain.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because it was cowardly and ungrateful.”
“To whom?”
“To you, who are so kind and so patient with me!”
“And who bids me be kind? Who teaches me to be patient with you?—poor little bruised lamb!”
“I know it, father; I feel it in the bottom of my heart; but one can’t always be remembering.” There was the slightest touch of impatience in her tone.
“How if God were some day to grow tired of remembering us, and bearing with us, and forgiving us?”