“Well, I declare!” cried Mrs. Lang, quite taken aback.  “What next!  I never heard of such a thing!  I believe, though, that one would do me good, and I know I’d enjoy it ever so much.  Miss Patch would, too, I believe!”

Miss Patch smiled.  “I’d enjoy one,” she laughed, “if I had to get up in the middle of the night for it.”

Without waiting for another word Jessie flew off to the kitchen.  This was her chance she felt to do things nicely, so, while the kettle came to the boil, she polished the shabby tray and the tea-cups and spoons.  She had no pretty white cloth to lay on the tray, unfortunately, but she had a sheet of white paper that she had saved from a parcel, and she spread this on the tray, then arranged on it the cups and saucers and milk-jug and sugar-basin.  She made the tea next and put out some biscuits on a plate.

She could not carry all up at once, so she took the tray first, then came back for the teapot and kettle.  A second chair was got from Mrs. Lang’s bedroom, and then the sociable little meal was begun.

It did not last long, but half-an-hour, at the longest.  Yet it was one of those bright little spots which linger long in the memory and make one glad, though sometimes sad, to look back upon.

“Well, I must get on, my work won’t do itself, I guess,” sighed Mrs. Lang, at last reluctantly preparing to rise, but Charlie put out his hand to detain her.

“Don’t go yet, mother, wait a minute, I want Miss Patch to sing.  Miss Patch, you will sing to us, just once, won’t you?” he pleaded.  “That one you used to sing to me.  Oh, do! please! please!”

“But, my dear, my dinner is on cooking, and—­and”—­Miss Patch’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, she was very shy—­“I—­I ain’t accustomed to singing, except to myself, and—­well, I used to sing to you sometimes when you were very little and didn’t know what good singing was.”

“It was lovely,” said Charlie earnestly, “and nobody ever sings to me now,” he added wistfully.

Miss Patch’s tender heart was touched, and her shyness overcome.  “Very well, dear, I will,” she agreed bravely, and it was really brave of her, for to do so cost her a great effort.  “Perhaps we could choose a hymn we all know, and we could all join in.  I am sure we all know ‘Safe in the arms of Jesus,’ or ’There’s a home for little children.’  You know them, don’t you, Jessamine May?”

“Yes,” said Jessie, “granp and I used to sing them on Sunday afternoons.”

But when they had begun “There’s a home for little children,” Miss Patch was soon left to sing it through alone, for Charlie was too exhausted, and after the first line or so Mrs. Lang could not get out another word for the pain at her heart and the lump in her throat, and taking Charlie in her arms she sat with bowed head looking down at him.

“Would it be better—­for him,” she thought heart-brokenly, “would not that home be better than this—­the only one she could give him—­and what was to become of him if he lost her?” But she forced the thought away.  “And what is to become of me—­if I lose him?” she asked herself fiercely—­and found no answer.