"You would not like to do _her_ sewing?" "I shall not ask for it," said the mother calmly. "Does she do her own cooking, as you do?" "No, my child. She has no need." "Do you think she is a better woman than you are, mother?" "That's not a wise question, I should say," Mrs. Carpenter returned. But something about it flushed her cheek and even brought an odd moisture to her eyes. "Because," said Rotha, wholly disregarding the animadversion, "_if she isn't_, I should say that things are queer." "That's what Job thought, when his troubles came on him." "And weren't they?" asked Rotha. "No. He did not understand; that was all." "I should like to understand, though, mother. Not understanding makes me uneasy." "You may be uneasy then all your life, for there will be a great many things you cannot understand. The better way is to trust and be easy." "Trust what?" Rotha asked quickly. "Trust God. He knows." "Trust him for what?" Rotha insisted. "For everything. Trust him that he will take care of you, if you are his child; and let no harm come to you; and do all things right for you, and in the best way." "Mother, that is trusting a good deal." "The Lord likes to have us trust him." "But you are his child, and he has let harm come to you?" "You think so, because you know nothing about it. No harm can come to his children." "I don't know what you call harm, then," said Rotha half sullenly. "Harm is what would hurt me. You know very well that pain does not always do that." "And can you trust him, mother, so as to be easy? Now?" "Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Most days." Rotha knew from the external signs that this must be true. "Are you going to see aunt Serena, mother?" "Not now." "When?" "I do not know." "Where does she live?" "Rotha, you may wash up these dishes, while I put things a little to rights in the other room."