“Jennie, did you hear what I said to you?” he inquired.
“Yes, I heard,” she sighed.
“Well, I said I was sorry I hurt you. Well, Jennie?” he asked, and then paused as if expecting some definite answer.
“I, too, am sorry that you hurt me, or anybody else, or yourself worse than all, Kightly. I am very sorry, and I pray to the Lord for you daily, almost hourly. Do you pray for yourself, Kightly?”
“No, I don’t! What would be the use? ‘God is not mocked.’”
“But ‘He is full of compassion,’ Kightly. He——”
“There, that will do!” said the sick man, interrupting her. “You know nothing about it! Go now. I have said what I sent for you to say to you. Now go, please. I can’t stand much of this sort of thing,” he muttered in a weak, petulant voice.
“I will come again to you when you want me, Kightly,” she said, rising.
“All right. And bring the youngster—but not to-day. There, there—go along with you,” said the man, turning his face to the wall and closing his eyes. Jennie left the room.
The next day she took the baby in to see its father.