“What makes you ask that, mammy?” he rejoined.
“Perhaps it could be managed!” she answered—leaving him to suppose his father might send him.
“Is it because you think I shall never be able to work again?—Look at that!” he returned, extending an arm on which the muscle had begun to put in an appearance.
“It's not for your strength,” she answered. “For that, you could do well enough! But think of the dust! It's so irritating to the lungs! And then there's the stooping all day long!”
“Never mind, mother; I'm quite able for it, dust and all—or at least shall soon be. We mustn't be anxious about others any more than about ourselves. Doesn't the God you believe in tell you so?”
“Don't you believe in him then, Richard?” said his mother sadly.
“I think I do—a little—in a sort of a way—believe in God—but I hope to believe in him ten thousand times more!”
His mother gave a sigh.
“What more would you have, mother dear?” said Richard. “A man cannot be a saint all at once!”
“No, indeed, nor a woman either!” she answered. “I've been a believer all these years, and I'm no nearer a saint than ever.”