ean her to love it?--and could she love too much what God had
given? Once she put this question to Mr. Penrose, and his reply
lived in her mind: 'If there is no limit to God's love of us, why
should we fear to love one another too dearly or too well?' But
now the test had come. The child was in danger; a shadow fell on
the idol. Was it the shadow of an angry God--a God insulted by a
divided love?

It was in the torturing hold of questions such as these that she
once more met Amos, who, laying the flattering unction to his soul
that he could forgive his enemies, struck a stab straight at her
heart by saying:

'Well, Deborah, th' chilt's dying, I yer. I towd thee he would.
Th' Almeety goes hawves wi' no one. He'll hev all or noan.'

'What! doesto mak' aat He's as selfish as thisel, Amos? Nay, I mun
hev a better God nor thee.'

'Well, a' tell thee, He's baan to tak' th' lad, so thaa mut as
weel bow to His will. Them as He doesn't bend He breaks.'

'Then He'll hev to break me, Amos; for aw shall never bend, aw con
tell thee.' And the old woman stiffened herself, as though in
defiance of the Providence which Amos preached.

'Why, Deborah, thaa'rt wur nor a potsherd. Thaa knows thi Bible:
"Let the potsherds strive wi' th' potsherds; but woe to th' mon
that strives wi' his Maker."'

'Well, I'm baan to wrostle wi' Him, an' if He flings me aw shannot
ax yo' to pick me up, noather.'

'Thaa mun say, "Thy will be done," Deborah.'

'Nowe! never to th' deeath o' yon chilt.'

'Doesto say thaa willn't?'

'Yi, Amos, aw do!'

Then Amos turned away, groaning in spirit at the rebellious hearts
of the children of men.

The child came safely through the convulsions, however, and as the
sharp edges of the little teeth gleamed through the gums, the old
woman would rub her finger over them until she felt the smart, and
with tearful eye thank God for the gift He had spared, as well as
for the gift He had granted--little dreaming that as she nursed
her treasure she nursed also her mentor--one who, though in the
feebleness of infancy, was drawing her back to a long-lost
childhood, and bidding return to her the days of youth.

The old grandmother now became the light of Matt and Miriam's
home. Instead of paying the occasional visit at her house, she was
ever at theirs--indeed, she could not rest away from the child.
Miriam long since had ceased to fear her. 'The little un,' as she
used to tell Matt, 'had drawed th' owd woman's t