'I don't believe there never was no sich a man,' said the previous reader, as she handed him the book, grudgingly.
'Not Jesus Christ himself?' said Falconer.
'Oh! I didn't know as you meant him.'
'Of course I meant him. There never was another.'
'I have heard tell—p'raps it was yourself, sir—as how he didn't come down upon us over hard after all, bless him!'
Falconer sat down on the side of the bed, and read the story of Simon the Pharisee and the woman that was a sinner. When he ceased, the silence that followed was broken by a sob from somewhere in the room. The sick woman stopped her moaning, and said,
'Turn down the leaf there, please, sir. Lilywhite will read it to me when you're gone.'
The some one sobbed again. It was a young slender girl, with a face disfigured by the small-pox, and, save for the tearful look it wore, poor and expressionless. Falconer said something gentle to her.
'Will he ever come again?' she sobbed.
'Who?' asked Falconer.