And this was a very wonderful woman Old Harpeth had cradled in the
hollow of His hand, nurtured on the richness of the valley and
breathed into her with ever-perfumed breath the peace of faith--in God
and man, for to any but an elemental, natural, faith-inspired woman of
the fields would have come crushing, cruel, tearing doubts of the man
beyond the hills who said so little and yet so much. However, Rose
Mary was one of the order of fostering women whose arms are forever
outheld cradle-wise, and to whose breast is ever drawn in mother love
the child in the man of her choice, so her days since Everett's
hurried departure had been filled with love and longing, with faith
and prayers, but there had been not one shadow of doubt of him or his
love for her all half-spoken as he had left it.
And added to her full heart had been burdens that had made her hands
still fuller. She had gone on her way day by day pouring out the
richness of her life and strength where it was so sorely needed by her
feeble folk, with a song in her heart for him and them and to answer
every call from along Providence Road. Thus it is that the motive
power for the great cycles that turn and turn out in the wide spaces
between time and eternity, regardless of the wheels of men that whirl
and buzz on broken cog with shattered rim, is poured through the
natures of women of such a mold for the saving of His nations.
At last Rose Mary folded her letter, hesitated, and with a glint of
the blue in her eyes as her lashes fell over a still rosier hint in
her cheeks, she tucked it into the front of her dress and smoothed and
patted the folds of her apron close down over it, then turned with
praiseworthy energy to the huge bowl of unworked butter.
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