"No, you don't. Nobody decent ever does give up in this sunshiny world of God's. That isn't what He put us in it for, but to keep right on jogging along, shedding happiness, loving Him, being content. How did this poor little darling ever hurt her tiny foot like that?"
Already the old fellow had Dorothy on his lap and was examining with careful tenderness the angry-looking wound she had received, while her curly head rested as contentedly against his breast as if it had been that of father John himself.
She opened her lips to tell, but she was too tired. Indeed, if she had felt equal to the labor of it she would have poured forth her whole story then and there. But it is doubtful if he would have tarried to hear it, for he rose at once, carrying the girl in his arms so gently, so lovingly, that a great wave of happiness swept over her, and she flashed her own old beautiful smile into his goggles:
"Oh! you good man. God sent you, didn't He?"
"Sure, sure! To you, one of His lambs! Come, son. We'll be going! This poor little foot must be attended to right away, and this is my 'busy day.' On my way to preach at an early service, for the poor colored folk who can't come later. Then to another one for scattered white folks—the rest of the day at the hospitals—Why, bless my heart! If my Sundays were fifty times as long I could fill every minute of them with the Master's work!"
More nimbly than Jim could have done, the happy old man scrambled back into the gig, never once releasing his hold of Dorothy, gathered up his reins, bade the lad "Hang on behind, some way!" chirruped to his sleepy nag, and drove on singing out of the lane.
"Bringing in the sheaves! Bringing in the sheaves!
We will come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves!"
Once, in a pause of his song, Dorothy reached up and stroked his cheek, saying:
"You're taking me home, aren't you!"
"Sure, sure! To my home, first, to your home next—if I can;—to your heavenly home, when the Master wills."