'Give me the pins,' said Joyce, vehemently. 'I'll larn.'
'Go back, Mr. John,' said Cicely; 'you know you are forbidden to rise to-day. Go back, or you will be worse to-morrow.'
'Is the maister not getting better?' asked Joyce, anxiously.
'He is; but his recovery is slow. His head has been injured, and we must take care that there be no relapse. We can pray to God for him, Joyce.'
The girl looked round full in her face inquiringly.
'Will that make 'n well?'
'I trust so.'
'Better than the doctor's medicine?'
'It helps the doctor to cure him.'
'I know nothing about it,' said Joyce. 'Did the maister pray for me when I were scat?'