"I'll hear it next Sunday, maybe," said Jessie. "I wish I could come. It's months and months since we've been to church. We live too far away from one, and I've been ill a long time, too."
"When you're well enough to be wheeled out into the verandah, you'll hear the hymns on Sunday night. We always prop the door open."
"That'll seem like old times," said Jessie, with quaint old-fashionedness. "I lived in the township with Grannie until I was ten years old, went to the State school every day and to Sunday school over there"—with a nod at the church. "Then Grannie died, and I went home to father and mother, but I don't like it. It's so lonesome in the bush. It's lovely to lie here and see the coach go by twice a day and the horses and bullock drays and things."
But Tom, watching the delicate face flush, thought Jessie had talked enough, and kneeling down, said a prayer or two, and standing, sang a hymn, and then bade the girl good-bye.
"Will you come again, and bring the little girl you spoke of?" asked Jessie, as Jack laid a shy hand in hers.
"Yes," said Jack gravely.
Once outside, he was full of talk about his visit.
"I shall go every day; she liked it, didn't she?"
"Yes, but you must not go too often yet, until she's stronger. She still has a good deal of pain to bear, though we hope it will grow less every day."
"I thought Dr. Wilson had conquered it."