auntie," he said one day, as he lay on a sofa at the open window of the
cottage, looking out upon the sea; "but to be bowled over at my age,
when the world was all before me, and I was so well able--physically, at
least--to fight my way. It is terrible, and seems so outrageous! What
good can possibly come of rendering a young man helpless--a strong,
capable machine, that might do so much good in the world, useless?"

He spoke in an almost querulous tone, and looked inquiringly in his
nurse's face. It did not occur to the youth, as he looked at her, that
the weak-bodied, soft, and gentle creature herself had been, and still
was, doing more good to the world than a hundred young men such as he!

Miss Millet's face was a wholesome one to look into. She did not shake
her head and look solemn or shocked. Neither did she laugh at his
petulance. She merely said, with the sweetest of little smiles, "You
may live, Jeff, to be a very useful machine yet; if not _quite_ as
strong as you were--though even that is uncertain, for doctors are
fallible, you know. Never forget that, Jeff--doctors are fallible.
Besides, your living at all shows that God has something for you to do
for Him."

"Nonsense, auntie. If that is true of me, it is just as true of
hundreds of men who live and die without making the smallest attempt to
accomplish any work for God. Yet He lets them live for many years."

"Quite true," returned Miss Millet; "and God _has_ work for all these
men to do, though many of them refuse to do it. But I feel sure that
that won't be your case, Jeff. He finds work just suited to our
capacities--at the time we need it, too, if we are only willing. Why,
in my own very case, has He not sent you to me to be nursed, just as I
had finished organising the new night-classes for the usher-boys; and I
was puzzled--absolutely puzzled--as to what I should do next and here
you step in, requiring my assistance, and giving me full employment."

"That's it--that's it," returned Jeff hastily. "I am without means, and
a burden on you and Captain Millet. Oh! it is hard--very hard!"

"Yes, indeed, it _is_ hard to bear. Of course that is what you mean,
for, as God has done it we cannot suppose anything that He does is
really hard. If your illness had been the result of dissipation, now,
or through your own fault, you could not have said exactly it was God's
doing; but when it was the result of noble self-sacrifice--"

"Come, c