“Can’t get there,” said Molly.  “Can’t stir.  I’m all aches all over.”

“How can you get tea, then, Molly?  Your fire is quite out.”

“Ache and get it—­” said the cripple grumly.

Daisy could not stand that.  She at first thought of calling her groom to make a fire; but reflected that would be a hazardous proceeding.  Molly perhaps, and most probably, would not allow it.  If she would allow her, it would be a great step gained.  Daisy’s heart was so fall of compassion she could not but try.  There was a little bit of an iron stove in the room, and a tea-kettle, small to match, stood upon it; both cold of course.

“Where is there some wood, Molly?” said Daisy over the stove;—­“some wood and kindling?  I’ll try if I can make the fire for you, if you will let me, please.”

“In there—­” said the cripple pointing.

Daisy looked, and saw nothing but an inner door.  Not liking to multiply questions, for fear of Molly’s patience, she ventured to open the door.  There was a sort of shed room, where Daisy found stores of everything she wanted.  Evidently the neighbours provided so far for the poor creature, who could not provide for herself.  Kindling was there in plenty, and small wood stacked.  Daisy got her arms fall and came back to the stove.  By using her eyes carefully she found the matches without asking anything, and made the fire, slowly but nicely; Molly meanwhile having reached up for her despised peach was making her teeth meet in it with no evidence of disapprobation.  The fire snapped and kindled and began immediately to warm up the little stove.  Daisy took the kettle and went into the same lumber shed to look for water.  But though an empty tin pail stood there, the water in it was no more than a spoonful.  Nothing else held any.  Daisy looked out.  A worn path in the grass shewed the way to the place where Molly filled her water pail—­a, little basin of a spring at some distance from the house.  Daisy followed the path to the spring, filled her pail and then her kettle, wondering much how Molly ever could crawl to the place in rainy weather; and then she came in triumphant and set the tea-kettle on the stove.

“I am very sorry you are sick, Molly,” said Daisy anew.

Molly only grunted; but she had finished her peach and sat there licking her fingers.

“Would you like to see Dr. Sandford?  I could tell him.”

“No!”—­said the poor thing decidedly.

“I’ll pray to the Lord Jesus to make you well.”

“Humph?”—­said Molly, questioning.

“You know, he can do everything.  He can make you well; and I hope he will.”

“He won’t make me well—­” said Molly.

“He will make you happy, if you will pray to him.”

“Happy!” said Molly; as if it were a yet more impossible thing.

“O yes.  Jesus makes everybody happy that loves him.  He makes them good too, Molly; he forgives all their sins that they have done; and in heaven he will give them white robes to wear, and they will not do wrong things nor have any pain any more.”