“God only knows; they may be far better in His sight than any of us,” Mrs. Flaxman said, wearily.

“Not any better than you, dear friend,” I said, clasping the little, thin hand in mine.

“Yes, better, if they are doing more for others than I, sacrificing their own ease and pleasure, which, alas, I am not doing.”

“How can you say that, when you are making home, and me so happy?  I want to grow to be just such a woman as you.”

“Alas, child, you must take a higher ideal than I am to pattern after, if your life is to be a success.”

“Mrs. Blake tells me of a good man living on the Mill Road, who is blind and thinks a great deal.  He says none of us can tell what our lives seem like to the angels, and that many a one will get an overwhelming surprise after death; some who think they are no good in the world, mere cumberers of the ground, will find such blessed surprises as they wander through the Heavenly places.”

“That is very comforting, dear, if we could only hope to be among those meek ones.”

“He told Mrs. Blake she might be one of God’s blessed ones if she wished—­that any sincere soul was welcomed by Him.”

“Surely you did not need to go to Mrs. Blake to learn that?”

I was silent, perhaps ashamed for Mrs. Flaxman to know how very dense my ignorance was respecting these mysteries of our holy religion.  As the weeks went by my friendship for Mrs. Blake strengthened.  I kept her little cottage brightened with the old-fashioned blossoms that she loved best.  “They mind me so of when I was a child, and the whole world seemed in summer time like a great garden.  We lived deep in the country, just a little strip of ground brought in from the woods, and all round our little log house was the green trees,” she said one day, the pleasant reflective look that I liked to see coming into her kind, strong face.  I used to sit and listen to her homely, uncultivated speech, and wonder why I liked her so much better than my natural associates.  She was so real, I could not imagine her trying to appear other than she was.  Some way she seemed to take me back to elementary things, like the memories of childhood or the reading of the Book of Genesis.  Then she had so changed Daniel’s cottage—­newly papered, whitewashed and thoroughly cleansed with soap and water, it seemed one of the cosiest, homeliest places I ever saw.  I only went in the afternoons, and her housework then was always done; but she was never idle.  I used to watch her knitting stockings of all sizes with silent curiosity; but one day I asked who a tiny pair of scarlet ones was for.  “Mrs. Larkum’s baby.  The poor things are in desperate trouble,” she replied.

“But do you knit for other folks?”

“Yes, fur some.  Them I jest finished is fur one of the Chisties’ down the lane.  Any size from one to ten fits there.”

“Are they able to pay you?” I ventured to inquire.