two years.

"Ye'll have heard the news?" she asked. "There's been an action. Mrs.
Thatcher's man's gone down, and Mrs. Gascoigne, she's awa' to bring her
a bit comfort like." She surveyed the visitors sympathetically. "A've
nae doot there's mair than Mrs. Thatcher'll be needin' comfort the
morn, puir lambs."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "don't--don't! Please don't----" She
regained her self-control with an effort and turned to the window with
her lip between her teeth.

"Will I bring ye a cup of tea?" queried the landlady. "I have the
kettle boilin'."

"No thank you," said Betty. "It's very kind of you, but I think we'll
just sit down and wait quietly, if we may, till Mrs. Gascoigne comes
in. I don't expect she'll be long."

The landlady departed a little reluctantly, and Eileen Cavendish turned
from the window.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm a coward to go to pieces like this.
You're a dear.... And it's every bit as bad for you as it is for me, I
know. But I'm not a coward really. Bill would just hate me to be a
coward. It's only because--because..." She met Betty's eyes, and for
the first time the shadow of a smile hovered about her mouth.

Betty stepped forward impulsively and kissed her. "Then you're all
right--whatever happens. You won't be quite alone," she said. They
sat down side by side on the horsehair-covered sofa and Eileen
Cavendish half-shyly rested her hand on Betty's as it lay in her lap.

"I'm a poor creature," said the elder girl. "I wish I had
something--something in me that other women have. You have it, Mrs.
Gascoigne has it, and Etta Clavering. It's a sort of--strength.
Something inside you all that nothing can shake or make waver." Tears
welled up in her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks. "It's
Faith," she said, and her voice trembled. "It's just believing that
God can't hurt you..." She fumbled blindly for her tiny handkerchief.

Betty's eyes were wet too. "Ah!" she said gently. "But you believe
that too--really: deep down inside. Everybody does. It's in
everything--God's mercy...." Her voice was scarcely raised above a
whisper.

"I know--I know," said the other. "But I've never thought about it.
I'm hard, in some ways. Things seemed to happen much the same whether
I held my thumbs or whether I prayed. And now that I'm terrified--now
that everything in life just seems to tremble on a thread--how _can_ I
start crying out that I believe, I believe.