Quicksand
the compensations of immortality seemed very shadowy and very far away.
“Jes‘ remembah,” Sary went on, staring sternly into Helga‘s thin face, “we all gits ouah res‘ by an‘ by. In de nex‘ worl‘ we‘s all recompense‘. Jes‘ put yo‘ trus‘ in de Sabioah.”
Looking at the confident face of the little bronze figure on the opposite side of the immaculately spread table, Helga had a sensation of shame that she should be less than content. Why couldn‘t she be as trusting and as certain that her troubles would not overwhelm her as Sary Jones was? Sary, who in all likelihood had toiled every day of her life since early childhood except on those days, totalling perhaps sixty, following the birth of her six children. And who by dint of superhuman saving had somehow succeeded in feeding and clothing them and sending them all to school. Before her Helga felt humbled and oppressed by the sense of her own unworthiness and lack of sufficient faith.
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