“Now, don’t think I am dreadfully wicked, but I know I am; I want him to say: ‘Be not afraid, I know she is dead, but I have power enough for that; believe I can do _that_. He did not tell him _what_ to believe.” “He told him to believe in the sympathy and power that had just healed this woman who had been incurable twelve years, all the years his daughter had been living.” “But,” persisted Judith, “he might believe that, for he had just seen it; but to raise from the dead was beyond everything he had seen, and Christ gave him no promise for that.” “Perhaps he believed that the Master had power in reserve—he surely knew he was going to his house for something—he did not bid him believe, and then turn back; he went on with him to his house.” “Now you have said what I wanted. It was the _going on with him_ that kept up his faith. As long as Jesus kept on going his way he couldn’t but believe. He gave him something even better than his word to believe in. I shouldn’t think he would be afraid of anything then.” “Then don’t you be afraid of anything. Not until the Master turns and goes the other way.” “He will never do that,” Judith said to herself. The clock on the mantel struck the half hour: half-past five. Judith rolled up her work and went out to the kitchen. The tea kettle was singing on the range; everything was ready for the supper, biscuits and cake of her own making, jelly and fruit that she and Marion had put up together in the long summer days, to which she would add an omelet and creamed potatoes, for Roger was always hungry after a walk, and then coffee, for Mrs. Kenney would like coffee after her drive. “I don’t mind now if my prayers do get stopped in the middle,” she thought as she arranged the pretty cups and saucers on the supper table, “if Jesus goes all the way with me—he will take care of the rest of it, and next year—if something _dies_ this year, he can bring it to life next year. If He wants to; _and I don’t want Him to, if He doesn’t want to_.” Roger came out into the kitchen to watch her as she moved about, and, to his own surprise, found himself asking her the question he had intended not to ask at all. “Would you like to go back home with mother for the winter? You may have a music teacher, you have had none but Marion, and take lessons in anything and everything. Mother would like it very much,” he said, noting the gladness and gratitude in her face; “Martha will take your place here with Marion.” “Oh, yes, I _would_ like it,” she answered, doubtfully. “Did she propose it?” “Yes.” “You are sure you didn’t suggest it, even,” she questioned, still doubtfully. “I am not unselfish enough for that,” he answered, dryly. “But who would pay for it?” she questioned, with a flush of shame. “No; I will not go—until I earn money myself.”