"It is your soul."
The words were spoken in a soft whisper, and there was silence in the room for some time after that.
At last Mona put her wasted hand out.
"I will give it to Him, if He spares my life."
"Jack, Mona is going to get well. Miss Webb has written to tell us so. Oh, do let us do something jolly to-day."
"We'll have a donkey ride. There's a man just come along the road with four of them. Come on!"
But, alas! When purses were produced, only eightpence could be collected, and the donkey man shook his head.
"I wish," said Jack discontentedly, "that we needn't always be giving to the Bag."