“Yes,” assented Winifred.

“He told them,” whispered the housekeeper, “that when he was agonising in prayer it came into his mind to wait until August this year.  He hasn’t any assurance what it may have meant; but that may come later, and p’r’aps the days may be told him; and he’s awaiting, and we’re awaiting too.  There, that’s all I have to tell, child, and I must be going.”

She gathered her lean figure up from the hillock, and took up her pail.

As for the girl Winifred, a terrible feeling of fear had come over her.  All the bright world of sun and flowers seemed suddenly overshadowed by the lowering cloud of an awful possibility.  She would no more have allowed herself to be left alone in that sunny corner of the glad spring morning than she would have remained alone where visible danger beset her.  Her face bathed in the sudden tears that came so easily to her girlish eyes, she sprang like a fawn after her companion and grasped her skirt as she followed.

“How you take on!” sighed the woman, turning.  “Do you mean to say you ain’t, glad?”

“I’m frightened,” gasped the girl.

“And you been confirmed this spring!  What did it mean to you if you ain’t glad there’s ever such a little chance of perhaps seeing Him before the year’s out.”

They both climbed the fence, handing over the milk-pail between them.  When they had got on to the road and must part, the housekeeper spoke.

“I tell you what it is, Winifred Rexford; we’ve not one of us much to bring Him in the way of service.  If there’s one thing more than another I’m fond of it’s to have my kitchen places to myself, but I’ve often thought I ought to ask yer ma to send one of you over every day to learn from me how a house ought to be kept and dinner cooked.  Ye’d learn more watching me in a month, you know, than ye’d learn with yer ma a fussin’ round in six years.  Don’t tell yer ma it’s a trial to me, but just ask her if she’ll send you over for an hour or two every morning.”

“Thank you,” said Winifred, reluctantly.  “Do you think I ought to come?”

“Well, I’d want to be a bit more use to my ma if I was you.”

“It’s very kind of you,” acknowledged Winifred; “but—­but—­Mrs. Martha, if it was true about this—­this August, you know—­what would be the use of learning?”

“Child,” said the woman, and if her voice was sad it was also vehement, “them as are mad in religion are them as thinks doing the duty of each day for His sake ain’t enough without seeing where’s the use of doing what He puts to our hand.”

“Mrs. Martha,” besought Winifred, timidly, “I—­don’t like cooking; but do you think if I did this I should perhaps get to be glad to think—­be glad to think our Saviour might be coming again so soon?”

“To love Him is of His grace, and you must get it direct from Him; but it’s wonderful how doing the best we can puts heart into our prayers.”