“What a pretty name,” said Miss Patch gently, “and what a beautiful thought.  You are a little bit of a sweet garden transplanted into the midst of a dingy street to brighten us up, and bring beautiful and fragrant things to our minds.  Jessamine and may blossom,” she repeated softly; “oh, the picture it calls up, and the sweet fragrance!  I seem to see them and to smell them, even here!  I am ready now, little Jessamine May; shall we go to Charlie?”

Jessie sprang to her feet.  “I think yours is such a pretty room,” she said half timidly; and then her eye falling on a rose-bush in Miss Patch’s window, all her timidity vanished, and she sprang towards it with a cry of mingled pleasure and pain.

“Oh, you have a rose-bush, too!” she cried eagerly.  “I had one at granp’s, and I loved it so.”  The quivering of her lips prevented her saying more, and the tears in her eyes made the rose-bush look all misty and dim.

Miss Patch saw and understood, and it was a very loving hand she laid on Jessie’s shoulder.  “I know, dear, I know how it feels—­and you cannot understand the why and the wherefore of it all now—­but you will some day—­and in the meantime you are come to be a bit of sweet garden in our midst, to cheer us as your rose cheered you—­and we do need some brightness here, little Jessamine May, I can assure you.”  And, somehow, Jessie felt much of her overwhelming sorrow vanish at the little old lady’s words, and as she helped her down the stairs she felt quite cheered and happy again.

Charlie’s delight more than repaid Miss Patch for the pain and effort of going down to see him, and whilst they were all looking and admiring, and agreeing what a wonderful improvement it was, and how much more comfortable and spacious the room looked, and in every way desirable, Mrs. Lang returned and came up-stairs to see how her boy had got on in her absence.

Jessie had been rather dreading this moment, for she could not help feeling that she had been taking a great liberty, but Mrs. Lang was too weary and anxious to make troubles of trifles, and anything that pleased her darling was sure to please her too.

So she expressed her approval of their doings and sat down on the foot of Charlie’s bed to hear all about it, and all the advantages, and new charms and interests of having his bed in this position.

Miss Patch sat on the ricketty chair and joined in occasionally, but her quick sympathy was aroused by the weariness on Mrs. Lang’s face.

“You look tired out,” she said kindly.

“I feel so,” said Mrs. Lang listlessly.  “The wind is almost more than any one can battle with, and the damp seems to get into one’s bones.  I feel ready to drop—­and, oh, I’ve such a lot to do!”

“Mother,” said Jessie eagerly, “shall I make you a cup of tea?  I know the kettle is boiling by this time.  Don’t you think it would do you good?”

Charlie’s face lit up again.  “Oh do, mother, do, and have it up here, and Miss Patch have one, too, and Jessie, and me.”