Nevertheless, she said--
"Then, my dear, I beg your pardon, and God's pardon, too, if I've
weakened your faith, by showing you how feeble mine was. Half our
life's spent in waiting, and it ill becomes one like me, wi' so many
mercies, to grumble. I'll try and put a bridle o'er my tongue, and
my thoughts too." She spoke in a humble and gentle voice, like one
asking forgiveness.
"Come, Alice," interposed Mrs. Wilson, "don't fret yoursel for e'er
a trifle wrong said here or there. See! I've put th' kettle on, and
you and Mary shall ha' a dish o' tea in no time."
So she bustled about, and brought out a comfortable-looking
substantial loaf, and set Mary to cut bread and butter, while she
rattled out the tea-cups--always a cheerful sound.
Just as they were sitting down, there was a knock heard at the door,
and without waiting for it to be opened from the inside, some one
lifted the latch, and in a man's voice asked, if one George Wilson
lived there?
Mrs. Wilson was entering on a long and sorrowful explanation of his
having once lived there, but of his having dropped down dead; when
Alice, with the instinct of love (for in all usual and common
instances sight and hearing failed to convey impressions to her
until long after other people had received them), arose, and
tottered to the door.
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