"Set you down, Connie—right here," said Giles.
She sat down, and he looked at her.
"Wot do doctor say?" said Giles.
"Oh, that ye're a bit weakly, Giles. He's goin' to send yer a basket o' good wittles."
Giles smiled. Then he held out his shadowy little hand and touched Connie.
"Niver mind," he said softly; "I know wot doctor said."
A heavenly smile flitted over his face, and he closed his eyes.
"It won't be jest yet," he said. "There'll be plenty o' time. Connie, wull yer sing to me?"
"Yus," said Connie, swallowing a lump in her throat.
"Sing ''Ere we suffer.'"