Mrs. Motherwell came across the yard bareheaded.
"Come into the house, Sam," she said gently. "I want to
show you something."
He looked up quickly, but saw something in his wife's
face that prevented him from speaking.
He followed her into the house. The letters were on the
table, Mrs. Motherwell read them to him, read them with
tears that almost choked her utterance.
"And Polly's dead, Sam!" she cried when she had finished
the last one. "Polly's dead, and the poor old mother will
be looking, looking for that money, and it will never
come. Sam, can't we save that poor old woman from the
poorhouse? Do you remember what the girl said in the
letter, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of
these my little ones, ye have done it unto Me?' We didn't
deserve the praise the girl gave us. We didn't send the
flowers, we have never done anything for anybody and we
have plenty, plenty, and what is the good of it, Sam?
We'll die some day and leave it all behind us."
Mrs. Motherwell hid her face in her apron, trembling with
excitement. Sam's face was immovable, but a mysterious
Something, not of earth, was struggling with him. Was it
the faith of that decrepit old woman in that bare little
room across the sea, mumbling to herself that God had
not forgotten? God knows. His ear is not dulled; His arm
is not shortened; His holy spirit moves mightily.
Sam Motherwell stood up and struck the table with his
fist.
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