"I don't know, Molly; but I hope he won't. Perhaps the doctor will be able to tell us presently."
"Jesus can make him well, can't He?"
"Yes, of course He can. We'll ask Him, Molly."
So the children crept noiselessly downstairs, and, in the kitchen, they huddled together in a corner, whilst Jim, in faltering accents, prayed for their father's recovery.
By-and-bye the doctor's footsteps were heard descending the stairs. He was a kindhearted man, with little ones of his own, and he cast a pitying look at the children.
"Will my father live, sir?" Jim enquired.
"I cannot tell, my boy. He has broken his right leg, and has other injuries besides, but he may pull through. We must hope for the best. Well, little girl," patting Molly's golden head, "what have you been doing to your eyes? Crying, eh?"
"Yes, sir." Molly answered shyly.
"Oh, you mustn't cry. That won't mend matters. You'll be wanted to help nurse your poor father; and I can't have tears in a sick-room, you know. That won't do."
"No, sir," said Molly.