As hour after hour passed and there was nothing left to do, Amy took
Johnnie on her lap, and they rocked back and forth and cried together.
Soon the heavy lids closed over the little girl's eyes, and shut off the
tears. Alf had already coiled up on a lounge and sobbed himself to sleep.
Maggie took up the little girl, laid her down beside him, and covered
them well from the draughts that the furious gale drove through every
crack and cranny of the old house, glad that they had found a happy
oblivion. Amy then crept to a footstool at Mrs. Clifford's side--the
place where she had so often seen the youth whom the storm she now almost
began to believe had swept from them forever--and she bowed her head on
the old lady's thin hand and sobbed bitterly.

"Don't give way so, darling," said the mother, as her other hand stroked
the brown hair. "God is greater than the storm. We have prayed, and we
now feel that he will do what is best."

"Oh, that I had your faith!"

"It will come in time--when long years have taught you his goodness."

She slowly wiped her eyes, and stole a glance at Mr. Clifford. His
earlier half-desperate restlessness had passed away, and he sat quietly
in his chair gazing into the fire, occasionally wiping a tear from his
eyes, and again looking upward with an expression of sublime submission.
Soon, as if conscious of her wondering observation, he said, "Come to me,
Amy."

She stood beside him, and he drew her close as he continued: