"Well, Jane, have it your own way. You're generally right. 'Blessed are the peace-makers,' the Saviour says; and I'm sure you've made peace between John and me a score of times."
In the afternoon, when the mother was ready to sit by Ernest, he had fallen asleep again. His face was very pale, and, as she bent over him, her heart went up to God in prayer, that, if it was God's will that he should be weak in body, his head might be strong to resist evil; that he might be gathered into the fold of the good Shepherd.
Then she sat down close to the window, and presently she saw her brother's wife, stepping over the wall, on her way to the house. She went out to the sitting-room, softly closing the door behind her.
"I'm really sorry about Ernest," Mary Anne exclaimed, falling into the rocking chair, with a sigh. "Does Doctor Frost think he can save the hand?"
"Oh, yes, he hopes to! The only danger is that the muscles, which were cut quite off, will contract. I am hopeful, for I cut my finger once when a child, and for months had no use of it. But constant trying brought it round at last. See, it's as useful a finger as I have now." And she held up her forefinger for notice.
"What does he say about it?"
"He says he did not unlock the chest."
"That's true, Jane; I know he didn't."
The mother looked pleased.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Mary Anne. "If John wasn't so hot, I could set it all right, but,—well it's no use to cry-about what never will be different. I was making the beds when I heard Henry creep upstairs to the closet where his father hangs his clothes. I was going to ask him what he wanted when he said,—