He had been right about one thing--there was a distinct change in
Annie's manner. It was not, however, any difference such as he had
imagined; it went deeper than mere speech. As he entered his mother came
over to him, and, tilting up his chin, searched his eyes with hers till
he felt uncomfortable. He jerked his head away, retreating against the
door which had swung to behind him.

"Eh," said Annie, and he knew it was not to him she spoke; "it is to be.
The Lard will accept him as He accepted the infant Samuel."

Ishmael began to be afraid; his mother's eyes had the glitter in them
that usually went with one of her storming fits, but now she was quiet,
though tense. "What is it, mother?" he asked nervously, staring at her
in his turn.

"You'm a brand to be plucked from the burning," she told him, "an' by
the grace of God mine's to be the hand that'll pluck 'ee. You'll be
saved along of your poor old mawther, won't 'ee, dearie?"

Then, as Ishmael showed no disposition to do anything but try and get
away, she caught up a slab of heavy-cake which lay on the dresser. "Thee
mustn't be afeared of thy mawther, my worm," she murmured, her voice
more coaxing than he had ever heard it; "we're gwain before the Lard
hand in hand.... There, take this bit o' food into the yard, but don't
'ee go far. Do 'ee hear what I say, Ishmael?"

He hastened with a submissive "Yes" and then fled, cake in hand. Out in
the yard his little mind struggled in vain with the problem of this
change, for there was no added respect in his mother's treatment of him,