"Know nothing 'bout him. Don't think he have, for the boys, Dick and Hal, was 'ome when I come back. They 'ad no news for me at all."
"You saw Sue to-day?"
"Yus, I saw her, an' I kep' well away from her."
"Agnes," said Connie in a very pleading voice, "ef I must stay 'ere—an' I don't know wot I ha' done to be treated like this—will yer take a message from me to little Giles?"
"Wot sort?" asked Agnes.
"Tell 'im straight from me that I can't come to see 'im for a few days, an' ax him to pray for me; an' tell him that I 'ears the Woice same as he 'ears the Woice, and tell 'im as it real comforts me. Wull yer do that, Agnes—wull yer, now?"
"Maybe," said Agnes; then after a pause she added, "Or maybe I won't. I 'ates yer Methody sort o' weak-minded folks. That's the worst o' you, Connie; you're real weak-minded, for all ye're so purty, what wid yer 'prays' an' yer Woice, indeed!"
"Hark! it's sounding now," said Connie.
She raised her little delicate hand, and turned her head to listen. The splendid notes filled the air. Connie murmured something under her breath.
"I know wot Giles 'ud say 'bout the Woice to-night," she murmured.