"I must work while it is day, love," she said, smiling up at me in the way which always provoked a caress.
"Martha, Martha," I always replied, "thou art anxious and troubled about many things: but one thing is needful, and that in your case is rest."
She drew my head on to her breast one day as I said this for the hundredth time—I had knelt down upon the rug, and mockingly held her prisoner—and she said very, very softly:
"Grace love, I am going to give in. The voice within tells me you are right, and I do not fret. 'In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength.' It is because I am so strong in spirit that I do not recognise how weak I am in body; but I think, love, I am beginning to realise it now. And as I have you to look after me I have much to thank God for. Do you know, Grace love, I am sure the Lord sent you to Windyridge for my sake. It is wonderful how He makes things work together for the good of many. He knew this poor old Martha would soon need somebody to pet her and look after her, so he sent you to be an angel of comfort."
"Well," I said, as cheerfully as I could with my spirit in chains, "He has paid me good wages, and I have a royal reward. Why, my own cup is filled to overflowing, 'good measure, pressed down, running over'—isn't that the correct quotation? I wouldn't have missed these twelve months of Mother-Hubbardism for a king's ransom."
She pressed my head still more closely to her. "Are you very busy this morning, love?" she asked. "I feel that I can talk to you just now if you have time to listen, and it will do me good to speak."
It had come at last, and I braced myself to meet it. "What have you got to say to me, motherkin? Speak on. I am very comfy, and my work will wait."
"Yes, love," she said—and it was so unlike her to acquiesce so readily that my heart grew heavier still—"work can wait, but the tide of life waits for no man, and there is something I want to say before the flood bears me away."
"Are you feeling worse, dear?" I asked; "would you like me to ask Dr. Trempest to call? I can telephone from the Hall."
"No, love," the gentle voice replied, "I am past his aid. I shall slip away some day without pain; that is borne in upon me, and I am thankful, for your sake as well as for my own. The doctor will just call to see me in the usual way, but you will not have to send fer him. No; I just want to discuss one or two things with you, love, whilst my mind is clear and my strength sufficient. And you are going to be my own cheerful, business-like Grace, aren't you, love?"'