Little Eyebright and her pund o' care

"I DON'T know, I'm sure, Mrs. Landor. I suppose you're right, of course. People never ought to fret, of course. Mr. Landor would say just the same if he were preaching. I suppose everybody ought always to feel sure that everything is always exactly right."

An odd expression crossed the other's face.

"Oh, I know it is quite wrong ever to let one's self get worried. But then, you see, it always was my way to be easily upset. Some people are made like that; don't you think so? And other people are made quite different. I don't see, for my part, how one is to help how one was made. When things go wrong, I always do get low-spirited. It is very foolish, perhaps, but then it is my way. I have been harassed half out of my senses the last week. As fast as ever one trouble clears off, another comes in its place. That is what I find," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie. "There's no sort of peace or rest in life,—nothing but worry!"

"Isn't it a comfort that one trouble does clear away before another comes?" asked her caller.

"Oh well, when it does. But sometimes everything seems to come together, all in a heap. I am sure, last winter I didn't know where to turn or what to do, with the influenza and all! And most likely it will be just as bad next winter. The influenza is certain to come again."

"Nay! Why certain?"

"Oh, they say it will; people all say so. And if my husband gets it a fourth time, I don't believe he will pull through. I don't, indeed! He has never been the same man since those three attacks, one on the top of another. He isn't fit for his work, and everybody says so, but if he stops, how in the world are we to pay our way?"

"He might take a holiday if needful. Still, I would not in your place give much for the opinion of 'everybody.' What does your doctor say?"

"Colin has not been to the doctor lately. He doesn't want to run up bills, but he looks so ill, I quite dread to see him come in! And Ken's cough frightens me. He has kept it on the whole summer, and now we are half-way through September. I suppose he won't lose it before the winter; and a boy is so exposed to risks . . . And in the middle of all my worries, my cook has given me warning, just because she wants to get married. It is hard, when she suited me so nicely, and when I have so many things weighing on me! And my housemaid has a bad finger, and can't do half her work . . . And then there is Euphrasia."

"What of Euphrasia? Nothing wrong there surely! Euphrasia looks the picture of health."

"Oh, as to health—yes, she is well enough. It isn't that, but I do get so disappointed. I suppose one must expect to be disappointed. I did think it would be such a comfort to have a daughter at home with her education done and no lessons, and plenty of time to help me: and really Euphrasia is as busy as Flo, and not half so pleasant. It is a sort of way with her—answering so shortly, I mean—but I always do feel hurt. And then she likes her own way so much! Girls do, I suppose, pretty nearly always. Flo is different, but then Flo always 'was' a little angel. It quite frightens me sometimes, she is so good."

"Euphrasia does not frighten you, apparently, in that respect. However, girls ought not to be too busy to help their mothers."

"Oh, I don't say she is. She means to do right, I dare say. Of course, she doesn't want to neglect her duties. Only I suppose I'm too sensitive: and then there is a grudging sort of manner; not that she means it so, I dare say. It is only awkwardness, only I can't help noticing. And to have her going away already, just when I was beginning to find her useful—"

"Going where?"

"It's an invitation from a school friend, Letitia Johnston. Euphrasia is so odd; she makes hardly any friends. She only has this one, and really I don't know anything about the girl's family. There's been a sort of promise that Euphrasia should pay them a visit when she had done with school, and now Colin says we can't well refuse. We had Letitia here once for a week; and she seemed nice, rather. But still—"

Mrs. Landor made no immediate answer. She was a graceful woman, over middle height, and perhaps beyond middle age, with hair already silvered, and a certain innate queenliness of bearing, not lessened by the severe plainness of her black merino dress and close gray bonnet. Serene eyes beneath a broad brow studied the pretty woman opposite—for Mrs. Mackenzie, wife of the Manager of West Norton Bank, was a decidedly pretty woman still, despite her forty years. She might have been a very attractive one, had her lips fallen habitually into less fretted curves; had her blue eyes been habitually less full of trouble and self-condolence.

"Still if you do not feel that you can spare her—"

"I don't suppose it will make much difference. She has to go some day, and the visit may as well be got over. Euphrasia would not like to give it up, and any time, almost, would be as bad. Women's lives are just made up of harass and bother."

"Are they?" queried Mrs. Landor soberly. "Mrs. Mackenzie, if I didn't know you quite so well, I should venture to say something . . . One can speak more freely, I think, on some subjects as a stranger than as a friend."

"I hope she isn't going to begin preaching," darted through Mrs. Mackenzie's mind. And then came a swift recollection of innumerable kindnesses, followed by the resolve, "I mustn't seem to be vexed." Aloud she said cautiously, "I should think you might say anything you liked to me!"

"Then may I ask a question? You have a good deal to say about harass and worry, and, of course, life does mean a fair amount of them for most people. Yet there is another side of the question. I wonder whether that side ever presents itself to you . . . When our Lord said, 'Come unto Me . . . and I will give you rest'—what do you think He really intended to do? Is absolute rest a thing compatible with perpetual mental harass? For surely harass means unrest! If the two are not compatible—then, what did He mean?"

Mrs. Mackenzie was silent.

"If I were you, I would find an answer to that question," continued Mrs. Landor softly. She was not at all a demonstrative person, but for once she stooped and kissed the plaintive downcast face. "We may be sure of one thing, that what Christ said, He meant, and that what He meant was something very real and practical . . . Perhaps the question resolves itself into not so much what HE means by rest, as what 'we' mean when we ask for rest; and whether we ever do actually take Him at His word! . . . It seems such a pity, if He is willing and waiting to give us rest, that we don't trouble ourselves to receive it . . . Forgive me for saying so much. Good-bye."

"It's all very well, but Mrs. Landor doesn't know what life means with such an income as ours," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie. "If she did, she might have a right to speak. If her husband died to-morrow, it wouldn't make a farthing's difference to her comforts. And if Colin were to break down, we should just be at the end of everything. It's bad enough now, trying to make both ends meet and never able to get a quarter of the things we need. Of course, it is quite right to have a proper amount of trust, but all the same one must be anxious. Mrs. Landor would in my place, whatever she may say now. And there's nobody to understand, nor to be the least help to me. Colin never will talk over things till he has made up his mind what to do, and Euphrasia is wrapped up in her own concerns. I did think Mrs. Landor would give me a little sympathy, but she is no better than anybody else. I might just as well have kept it all to myself . . . Why, there's Colin coming home now! What can be the matter? O dear!"

Mrs. Mackenzie ran to the front door and flung it open in a tremor of alarm. A tall man of somewhat solid build, not amounting to stoutness, came slowly up the little garden. His face, albeit by no means handsome, had good strong outlines, but the complexion at this moment showed an unnatural pallor.

"Colin! What has brought you back? Do tell me—quick! Is anything the matter? I am so frightened! Oh, make haste and speak! I know something is dreadfully wrong."

"Nothing for you to be frightened about, my dear. I am merely—a little out of sorts to-day." He spoke with a touch of breathlessness, as if the walk home had been too fatiguing. "I'll be all right presently."

Making his way past her into the small drawing-room, he sat down in his favourite arm-chair.