resently,
longing to rouse and cheer him. But he only shook his head again.

"No, thank you, it would be too much trouble for her, and--don't you
think it would be nice to stay quiet, just by ourselves, this
afternoon?" he asked. "Will you read to me, or tell me about
Springbrook?"

"Of course I will, dear," she answered warmly; "but--but I had better
go up and tell Miss Patch, hadn't I, or she would think it unkind?"

This, though, was not her only reason for going. She wanted to be
alone, away from him for a moment, to try and recover herself, and
face this new shock.

"Miss Patch," she cried in a tone of agony, "I believe Charlie is
worse, he seems so quiet, and so tired, and--and--Oh, Miss Patch,
what shall I do! He _must_ get better, he must, he must."

But the tears came into Miss Patch's eyes too, and she had little
comfort to offer. She had long had grave fears, and though she had
tried to put them aside, she had never quite succeeded.

But Jessie had to control herself, for Charlie was waiting for her.
"When these fogs are gone, and the spring comes, and the sunshine,"
she said, trying to pluck up hope, "he will be better, I am sure."

"This weather certainly tries the strongest," said Miss Patch, with a
sigh. "We will hope for the best, dear. We all of us have our bad
days, don't we? Charlie may be much better to-morrow; we must try to
keep his spirits up, and make him as cheerful and happy as we can."
But Jessie, as she went down the stairs again, wondered how that
would be possible when she herself felt so far from being either.

Christmas came and went, and the spring came, but without bringing to
Charlie the strength and health that Jessie prayed for so earnestly
for him. He never again went up to Miss Patch's room to
Sunday-school, so Miss Patch came down to him, and read or sang to
him, just as he wished. They had no lessons now, for he could not
bear even that slight strain, and, as Miss Patch said, with tears
trickling down her worn cheeks--

"What good is my teaching now? He will soon know more than any of
us. We can only help and strengthen him for the last hard steps of
his journey." And Tom Salter, to whom she spoke, said huskily--

"You'd be a help to anybody, miss; don't 'ee give way now, don't 'ee
give way," and all the time he was wiping the back of his hand across
his own wet eyes. "'Tisn't _his_ journey that'll be the hardest and
stormiest, I'm thinking," added Tom,