"We will look that letter over from Mrs. Fisher, now, my dear."
Mrs. Henderson sat down on the end of the well-worn sofa.
"Lie down, dear," he said, "and let me tuck a pillow under your head. You are all tired out."
"Oh, husband, I am sure you are quite as tired as I am," and the color flew into her cheeks like a girl. But he had his way.
"You better leave the door open"—as he went across the room to close it—"Jerusha may call."
"Jerusha won't need us," he said, and shut it.
"You know the doctor said she was not much hurt, only strained and bruised, and she's quite comfortable now. Well, my dear, now about this letter. Do you think we might take this child?"
"We?" repeated his wife, with wide eyes. "Why, husband!"
"I know it seems a somewhat peculiar thing to propose"—and the parson smiled—"with our two boys and Jerusha."
"Yes," said Mrs. Henderson, "it is, and I never thought seriously of it."