The old woman by the fire slewed her head painfully round and stared at him, then at Naomi.  But Naomi was standing with her back to them both, and her hands soaping the linen in the tub—­gently, however, and without any splashing.  She therefore let her head sink back on the cushion, and assumed that peculiarly dejected air, commonly reserved by her for the consolations of religion.

On this occasion William Geake prayed in a low and level tone, and very briefly.  He made no allusion to last Saturday, but put up an earnest petition for blessings upon “our two sisters here,” and that they might learn to accept their appointed portion with resignation, yea, even with a holy joy.  At the end of two minutes he rose, and was about to dust his knees, after his usual custom, but, becoming suddenly aware of the difference in cleanliness between Naomi’s lime-ash and the floors of the various meeting-houses of his acquaintance, refrained.  This little piece of delicacy did not escape Naomi, though her shoulders were still bent over the tub, to all seeming as resolutely as ever.

“Well, I swow that was very friendly of Mister Geake!” the old woman ejaculated, as the door closed behind him. “‘Tisn’t everybody’d ha’ thought what a comfort a little scrap o’ religion can be to an old woman in my state.”

“He took a great liberty,” said Naomi snappishly.

“Well, he might ha’ said as much as ‘By your leave,’ to be sure; an’ now you say so, ‘twas makin’ a bit free to talk about our dependence—­an’ in my own kitchen too.”

“He meant our dependence on th’ Almighty,” Naomi corrected, still more snappishly.  “William Geake’s an odd-fangled man, but you might give ‘en credit for good-feelin’.  An’, what’s more, though I don’t hold wi’ Christian talk, if a man have a got beliefs, I respect ’en for standin’ to ’em without shame.”

“But I thought, a moment ago—­” her mother began, and then subsided.  She was accustomed to small tangles in her own processes of thought, and quite incapable, after years of blind acceptance, of correcting Naomi’s logic.

No more was said on the matter.  The next Saturday, after receiving his shilling, Mr. Geake knelt down without any hesitation.  It was clear he wished this prayer to be a weekly institution, and an institution it became.

The women never knelt.  Naomi, indeed, had never sanctioned the innovation, unless by her silence, and her mother assisted only with a very lugubrious “Amen,” being too weak to stir from her chair.  As the months passed, it became evident to Geake that her strength would never come back.  The fever had left her, apparently for good; but the rheumatism remained, and closed slowly upon the heart.  The machine was worn out.

When the end came, Naomi had been doing the work single-handed for close upon twelve months.  She could always get a plenty of work, and now took in a deal too much for her strength, to settle the doctor’s and undertaker’s bills, and buy herself a black gown, cape, and bonnet.  The funeral, of course, took place on a Sunday.  Geake, on the Saturday afternoon, knocked gently at Naomi’s door.  His single intent was to speak a word or two of sympathy, if she would listen.  Remembering her constant attitude under the Divine scourge, he felt a trifle nervous.