Read Online A Daily Rate by Grace Livingston Hill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
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Mrs. Morris would be better to-night and able to sit up and direct things a little, and then there came to her mind the joyous thought that perhaps she was to have the means soon to make that house permanently better in some ways and help its inmates. How light her heart and her shoulders felt now that she had laid down that heavy self-imposed cross! It was wonderful! Oh, why could she not learn to trust her Master? The verse of a loved hymn came and hummed itself over in her mind.
“Fearest sometimes that thy Father
Hath forgot?
When the clouds around thee gather,
Doubt him not!
Always hath the daylight broken—
Always hath he comfort spoken—
Better hath he been for years,
Than thy fears.”
Chapter 7
MISS Hannah Grant sat in her room under the eaves darning little Johnnie’s stocking. Her hair was grey and rippled smoothly over her finely shaped head. Her sweet face wore a sad, far-away expression. It had grown habitual with her ever since she had come to live with her niece Nettie. Perhaps a close observer would see that the sadness was a shade deeper this afternoon. Her eyes were deep grey and seemed to go well with her hair. She gave one the impression of being able to sec further with them than most people, and there was a luminousness about them that lit up her otherwise plain face, and made it truly beautiful. Her gown was plain and old and grey. She always wore grey dresses. They had been becoming long ago in the days when it mattered whether she wore becoming things, and now that she cared no more about the becomingness, she wore them for sweet association’s sake, and for the sake of one long gone who used to admire them when she wore them. She did not seem to know that they still suited her better than any other color, or absence of color, could have done.
The hole was large and ill-shaped, for Johnnie was hard on his stockings, but she darned it patiently back and forth, and seemed to be thinking of something else. Once she laid it down and went to the closet for her little grey worsted shawl to throw around her shoulders, for the room was heated only by a drum from the stove downstairs and she felt chilly. She usually sat in the sitting-room in the afternoon to sew or mend, but there had been a reason for her coming up here today. She had settled herself as usual by the west window downstairs to get a good light on her work. She had a large peach basket full of stockings by her side, and her workbasket on the window. The baby, creeping about the floor, had upset the peach basket and scattered its contents around, and Nettie, coming down just then in a new red cashmere shirt waist she had finished the day before, had jerked him unceremoniously away from among the stockings and hastily bundled them all into the basket, shoving it behind aunt Hannah’s chair and out of her reach. As she did so, she remarked in a disagreeable tone that she wished aunt Hannah wouldn’t bring that old thing into the sitting-room. Couldn’t she bring a pair of stockings at a time, and not litter up the whole room? She was expecting Mrs. Morgan and her sister in with their embroidery and crocheting, and she did like to have things look a little nice. Aunt Hannah had meekly disposed of the stocking basket behind her ample apron, and there had been silence in the room for a few minutes. Then young Mrs. Bartlett remarked:
“Aunt Hannah, I think you had better go and change your dress, if you are going to sit there. That old grey thing doesn’t look very well. I wish to goodness you had a black silk, or something, like other folks. You always waste your money on grey things when you have to buy anything. It’s a dreadfully gloomy color. It makes you look sallow, too, now you’re getting older.”
Nettie had gone out in the kitchen then for a minute and returned just as aunt Hannah was starting upstairs with the darning basket.
“Aunt Hannah!” she called, “take your shawl and bonnet up with you,
“Fearest sometimes that thy Father
Hath forgot?
When the clouds around thee gather,
Doubt him not!
Always hath the daylight broken—
Always hath he comfort spoken—
Better hath he been for years,
Than thy fears.”
Chapter 7
MISS Hannah Grant sat in her room under the eaves darning little Johnnie’s stocking. Her hair was grey and rippled smoothly over her finely shaped head. Her sweet face wore a sad, far-away expression. It had grown habitual with her ever since she had come to live with her niece Nettie. Perhaps a close observer would see that the sadness was a shade deeper this afternoon. Her eyes were deep grey and seemed to go well with her hair. She gave one the impression of being able to sec further with them than most people, and there was a luminousness about them that lit up her otherwise plain face, and made it truly beautiful. Her gown was plain and old and grey. She always wore grey dresses. They had been becoming long ago in the days when it mattered whether she wore becoming things, and now that she cared no more about the becomingness, she wore them for sweet association’s sake, and for the sake of one long gone who used to admire them when she wore them. She did not seem to know that they still suited her better than any other color, or absence of color, could have done.
The hole was large and ill-shaped, for Johnnie was hard on his stockings, but she darned it patiently back and forth, and seemed to be thinking of something else. Once she laid it down and went to the closet for her little grey worsted shawl to throw around her shoulders, for the room was heated only by a drum from the stove downstairs and she felt chilly. She usually sat in the sitting-room in the afternoon to sew or mend, but there had been a reason for her coming up here today. She had settled herself as usual by the west window downstairs to get a good light on her work. She had a large peach basket full of stockings by her side, and her workbasket on the window. The baby, creeping about the floor, had upset the peach basket and scattered its contents around, and Nettie, coming down just then in a new red cashmere shirt waist she had finished the day before, had jerked him unceremoniously away from among the stockings and hastily bundled them all into the basket, shoving it behind aunt Hannah’s chair and out of her reach. As she did so, she remarked in a disagreeable tone that she wished aunt Hannah wouldn’t bring that old thing into the sitting-room. Couldn’t she bring a pair of stockings at a time, and not litter up the whole room? She was expecting Mrs. Morgan and her sister in with their embroidery and crocheting, and she did like to have things look a little nice. Aunt Hannah had meekly disposed of the stocking basket behind her ample apron, and there had been silence in the room for a few minutes. Then young Mrs. Bartlett remarked:
“Aunt Hannah, I think you had better go and change your dress, if you are going to sit there. That old grey thing doesn’t look very well. I wish to goodness you had a black silk, or something, like other folks. You always waste your money on grey things when you have to buy anything. It’s a dreadfully gloomy color. It makes you look sallow, too, now you’re getting older.”
Nettie had gone out in the kitchen then for a minute and returned just as aunt Hannah was starting upstairs with the darning basket.
“Aunt Hannah!” she called, “take your shawl and bonnet up with you,
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