You complained of the miserable cottage. But Jennifer was ready to point out its advantages, until the tumble-down place seemed to grow quite considerate and kindly. "Well, you see it isn't half so bad as it _might_ be. The cracks don't let the wind blow in where we do sit to. And the rain don't drip in where we do sleep to. _That_ would be bad. And it _might_ ha' done; of course, it _might_ ha' done. What a mercy!" And again Jennifer's hands were uplifted. You began to pity her for the children's sake. But a merry laugh cut that short in a moment. "Yes, I often think about that," laughed Jennifer, "_there might ha' been fourteen of them_. And, bless you, whatever should I ha' done if there had a-been fourteen!" And Jennifer lifted up her hands and laughed again, and then slapped them down upon her knees. "Fourteen of them! Why, where should us all have slept to? And think of the eating all round, and the clothes and all. Fourteen! And it _might_ ha' been. What a mercy!" [Illustration] You talked pathetically about her work in the fields--the dreariness of it and the weariness, bending with hoe from morning to night; or kneeling at the weeds till all the limbs ached. But Jennifer was more than a match for you. "Ah, that's it. That's what I always say. To think that it should be such hard work and all that, and that I should have the strength for it. Now, if I was one of them sort that is always ailin' and failin', instead of being so strong as a horse! And I _might_ ha' been; of course, I _might_ ha' been. What a mercy! Why, there's some as couldn't walk there and back, for 'tis sometimes three miles there and three miles back, and there's some as couldn't do it when they got there, for the weeds be terrible strong sometimes. And there's some as couldn't bear it, east wind and rain and snow. And I _might_ ha' been one of them sort. What a mercy!" This was Jennifer's philosophy. Chapter III Now it chanced one day that the little village in which Jennifer lived was stirred by the ambition of the congregation to build a new chapel. The old place was not good enough; not even large enough. A great meeting was held, and the sluggish life of the place was quickened by a sermon from a stranger in the afternoon, followed by a public tea meeting. At night stirring speeches were made and various promises given. The well-to-do and generous layman who acted as the father of a group of village chapels in the district would give fifty pounds. One of the farmers would cart the stones. Another would give the lime. Others made promises that ranged down to a pound. There the line was drawn. Those who could do less than that did not count. Jennifer managed to get to the meeting and sat delighted at the promises of one and another, neither envying any nor even wishing that she could do some great thing. "I will do what I can," she said, as she shook hands with the chairman at the close of the meeting.