Fortunately for her, her days were too full and busy to allow of constant repining; and at night she was too weary to lie awake long grieving.  Miss Patch had said, “Have faith and trust and all will come right some day,” and Jessie did try to have faith, and to trust hopefully, though she worked hard and the fond poor, though her father was neglectful and cruel, and her mother gloomy and reserved.

     “God make my life a little flower,
        That giveth joy to all,
      Content to bloom in native bower,
        Although its place be small.”

She sang, and she did try hard to be content, and to do what she could, and the result was that in many ways she was happy in spite of all.

She loved Miss Patch, and the lonely little old woman loved her, and helped her over many a stony bit of road.  Charlie loved her, and clung to her, too, and her mother, she fancied, was fond of her in her own quiet, cold way.  At any rate, she never beat her, as her father did, or scolded and bullied her.  But soon after her second year in London had begun a new trouble, and a very heavy one, came to Jessie.  Charlie, she was sure, was getting worse.

He was growing thinner, and paler, and feebler, week by week.  The first time the truth dawned on her was one Sunday, when he said languidly that he thought he would not go up to Miss Patch’s room that afternoon, he was too tired.

Jessie was so astounded that for a second or so she could only stand and stare at him.  Then, with a sudden sharp fear at her heart, she flew to his side.

“Aren’t you feeling very well?” she asked anxiously, and Charlie shook his head, but with tears in his eyes, tears of weakness and disappointment.

“Shall I ask Miss Patch to come down here?” she asked presently, 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.”