"Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter; "he takes care of the children of Christians; and so I have faith that he will take care of you; but it is not just so. If you will not come to him now, he may take painful ways to bring you; if you will not trust him now, he may cut away everything else you trust to, till you flee to him for help. But I wish you would take the easier way." "But can I help my will?" said Rotha again, holding fast to that tough argument. "What can I do?" "I cannot tell. You had better ask Mr. Digby. I am not able for any more questions just now." "Mother. I'll bring you your milk," said Rotha, rather glad of a diversion. "Mother, do you think Mr. Digby can answer all sorts of questions?" "Better than I can." She brought her mother the glass of milk and the biscuit and sat watching her while she took them. She noticed the thin hands, the exhausted look, the weary attitude, the pale face. What state of things was this? Her mother eating biscuit and oysters got with another person's money; doing no work, or next to none; living in lodgings, but apparently without the prospect of earning the means to pay her rent; too feeble to do much but rest in that spring chair. "Mother," Rotha began, with a lurking, unrecognized feeling of anxiety-- "I wish you would make haste and get well!" Mrs. Carpenter was eating biscuit, and made no reply. "Don't you think you _are_ a little better?" "Not exactly to-day." "What _would_ do you good?" "Nothing that you could give me, darling. I am very comfortable. I wonder to see myself so supplied with everything I can possibly want. Look at this chair! It is almost better than all the rest." "That and the fire." "Yes; the blessed fire! It is so good!" "But I wish you'd get well, mother!" Rotha said with a half sigh. Mrs. Carpenter made no answer. "I don't see how we are going to do, if you don't get well soon," Rotha went on with a kind of impatient uneasiness. "What shall we do for money, mother? there's the rent and everything." "You forget what you have just been reading, my child. Do you think the words mean nothing?--'The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.'" "But that don't pay rent," said Rotha. "You think the Lord can do great things, and cannot do little things. I can trust him for all." "Then why cannot you trust him for me?" "I do." "Then why are you troubled?" "Because here your self-will comes in; and you may have to go through hard times before it is broken." "Broken? My self-will broken?" "Yes." "I do not want to be a creature without a will. I do not like such creatures." "You must talk to Mr. Digby, Rotha. I am too tired." "I won't tire you any more, mother dear! But I don't see why I should talk to Mr. Digby." And for a few moments Rotha was silent. Then she broke out again.