By this time we were on the top of the downs, and the wind was buffeting us, and every other minute assailing us with a blast of rain. Wynnie drew her cloak closer about her, bent her head towards the blast, and struggled on bravely by my side. No one who wants to enjoy a walk in the rain must carry an umbrella; it is pure folly. When we came to one of the stone fences, we cowered down by its side for a few moments to recover our breath, and then struggled on again. Anything like conversation was out of the question. At length we dropped into a hollow, which gave us a little repose. Down below the sea was dashing into the mouth of the glen, or coomb, as they call it there. On the opposite side of the hollow, the little house to which we were going stood up against the gray sky. “I begin to doubt whether I ought to have brought you, Wynnie. It was thoughtless of me; I don’t mean for your sake, but because your presence may be embarrassing in a small house; for probably the poor woman may prefer seeing me alone.” “I will go back, papa. I sha’n’t mind it a bit.” “No; you had better come on. I shall not be long with her, I daresay. We may find some place that you can wait in. Are you wet?” “Only my cloak. I am as dry as a tortoise inside.” “Come along, then. We shall soon be there.” When we reached the house I found that Wynnie would not be in the way. I left her seated by the kitchen-fire, and was shown into the room where Mrs. Stokes lay. I cannot say I perceived. But I guessed somehow, the moment I saw her that there was something upon her mind. She was a hard-featured woman, with a cold, troubled black eye that rolled restlessly about. She lay on her back, moving her head from side to side. When I entered she only looked at me, and turned her eyes away towards the wall. I approached the bedside, and seated myself by it. I always do so at once; for the patient feels more at rest than if you stand tall up before her. I laid my hand on hers. “Are you very ill, Mrs. Stokes?” I said. “Yes, very,” she answered with a groan. “It be come to the last with me.” “I hope not, indeed, Mrs. Stokes. It’s not come to the last with us, so long as we have a Father in heaven.” “Ah! but it be with me. He can’t take any notice of the like of me.” “But indeed he does, whether you think it or not. He takes notice of every thought we think, and every deed we do, and every sin we commit.” I said the last words with emphasis, for I suspected something more than usual upon her conscience. She gave another groan, but made no reply. I therefore went on. “Our Father in heaven is not like some fathers on earth, who, so long as their children don’t bother them, let them do anything they like. He will not have them do what is wrong. He loves them too much for that.” “He won’t look at me,” she said half murmuring, half sighing it out, so that I could hardly, hear what she said.