"Well, little ditch flower," he said, with an effort to speak playfully, but his voice sounded weak and exhausted.
"Oh, dear Uncle Guy, I am so glad you are better!" she murmured; "are you really quite out of pain?"
"Yes, really. At this moment I feel as though I haven't a nerve in my body. Sit down, Felicia—yes, on the edge of the bed where I can see you. What book is that in your hand?"
"My Bible. I brought it because I thought you might want me to read to you."
"Well, so I do—presently. Did you go to church this morning?"
"Yes, and sat in the Priory pew by myself. I thought of you all the time, Uncle Guy, and I prayed for you that God would help you bear your pain and, do you know, when Uncle Nathaniel was preaching, I believe he was thinking of you, because his sermon was about the man with the withered hand, whom Jesus healed on the Sabbath day, and—and isn't it nice and comforting to know that people—those who love you—are thinking and praying for you?"
"And do you mean to say there's a corner in your heart for such a cross-grained individual as myself?" he inquired.
"Of course there is, Uncle Guy."
By-and-by he declared himself ready to listen to some reading, and asked for the chapter of the Bible which told of the man with the withered hand. He listened attentively, whilst she read the account of the miracle as told in Saint Matthew's gospel, but he would let her read no further.
"'And a great multitude followed Him, and He healed them all,'" he repeated, quoting her last words. "That will do, thank you. I don't want to hear any more."