Th' Lard'll be findin' a
way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th'
spring, if that be His way o' curin she--I _knows_ He will. Th' Lard
always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid.
He'd not be lettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out
walkin'--He _never_ would do that. I'm thinkin' He'd a' found a way
afore _now_ if th' mail boat had been makin' another trip before th'
freeze up."
"I'm lackin' in faith, I'm fearin'. I'm always forgettin' that th'
Lard does what's best for us an' don't always do un th' way we wants
He to. He's bidin' His own time I'm thinkin', an' answerin' my prayers
th' way as is best."
This talk with Douglas made her feel better, but still there was that
burden on her heart--a burden that would not be shaken off.
All the Bay was frozen now, and white, like the rest of the world,
with drifted snow. The great box stove in the cabin was kept well
filled with wood night and day to keep out the searching cold. An
inch-thick coat of frost covered the inner side of the glass panes of
the two windows and shut out the morning sunbeams that used to steal
across the floor to brighten the little room. December was fast
drawing to a close.
Richard Gray's luck had changed.
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