"And my bag is wearing out," she said mournfully, "and Miss Falkner has no more red flannel; she thinks a bag can be made of anything, but I like my old one. It has great holes, and as fast as I mend them they tear out again."
"Poor little bag!" said Mr. Arnold, taking it in his hand. "It is worn out in a good service. Will you let me have it, Jill? I should like to hang it up in the vestry here, so that I can look at it sometimes. What is this tape on it? Something written on it."
"I did that," said Jill, her face in a glow of delight at Mr. Arnold's words.
He read out slowly—
"Of Thine own have we given Thee."
The letters were crooked and uneven. He smiled at Jill, then hung the little bag up on a nail.
She looked at it proudly. All sorrow for its uselessness had gone.
"It looks lovely up there!" she said. "And I don't mind now having a new one."
"But don't have a new motto, Jill. Keep that to the end of your life—'Of Thine own have we given Thee.'"