Jack's life seemed full of happenings at present, but the greatest of them was the advent of the bush brother. There was really more to tell father than the page of ruled copy-book paper upon which his weekly letter was written could compass. With the stimulus of that weekly letter his writing progressed by leaps and bounds, and expression did not seem so difficult when Aunt Betty told him to try and put down on paper the very things he would just say to father were he there to talk to, but it must be owned that the spelling, even with constant prompting from Aunt Betty left much to be desired.  
"ive a chum a little gurl not so big as me we dus lesuns at wunce, but she nos nothin but her letters."
 
Then a few weeks later:
 
"a man has cum a parsun, but not like ours hes a bush bruther and hes tort me ring the bell so now I go quite erly to church on sunday and ring quite regler."
 
Betty indulged in many a laugh over the letters when completed, but to Jack's father they brought huge delight.
 
Much of what Jack said to father, and father said to Jack, was confided to Tom Chance at the rare intervals when the little boy could secure the parson's attention to himself, for Tom was a busy man and away for the principal part of every week, either touring in the bush or visiting the other three parishes, none less than twelve miles from the township, that were confided to his temporary care. Father's parable about Giants was also passed on in full with a few embellishments of Jack's own.
 
"A good notion that of father's," said Tom, "a notion that catches on. After all the world is just full of giants that we must subdue to our will. There's a many-headed giant that we may call Evil that we've all promised to fight, that we pray against every day. Deliver us from evil; everything that is wicked and bad, and then there's another giant God suffers in the world, the giant of illness and bodily suffering, but there are people who are fighting that with might and main, kind and clever doctors, such as you have here. If you want to find giants to subdue you will have no difficulty in discovering them."
 
"But I'm going to be just the same as father," said Jack sturdily. "I'm going to be an airman, same as he."
 
"Well, well, time will show," said Tom good-humouredly.
 
That talk had taken place one Sunday as they went down to church together. Tom usually made his re-appearance in the township on Saturday afternoon, and the moment after their dinner, Jack and Eva would wander down to the end of the lane and between their games watch eagerly for his coming. It was a matter of weekly speculation how he would arrive, whether walking, or on horseback, or upon a bicycle. It all depended upon the distances that he had to compass during the week, but it made the watching all the more exciting; but whenever and however he appeared he was sure of an enthusiastic welcome from his two devoted adherents. Although the vicarage was empty he remained with his sister, as it did not seem worth while to set up an establishment of his own for so short a period.
 
On one particular Saturday afternoon when the time for his appearing was long past, the children's patience began to ebb.
 
"Don't b'lieve he's coming at all," said Eva dejectedly.
 
"Lots of things may have happened," Jack answered, "his bike may have punctured, or his horse may have cast a shoe, or he may be very tired and can't walk fast."
 
Jack was prepared for every contingency but the notion that Tom would not turn up at all, that would be little short of a calamity, but a prolonged glance down the road showed something moving in the far distance.
 
"There's someone on horseback riding beside a wagon, but I don't think it's Uncle Tom," Jack continued, for Tom Chance had adopted him as nephew. "He's crawling like a snail."
 
But as the wagon drew nearer the outrider was without doubt their uncle, and Jack raised a shout of welcome which received no response by word or look. The clergyman's face was turned towards the wagon.
 
"It may be a——funeral," said Jack, under his breath. "Uncle Tom looks so solemn and sad."
 
Eva's rosy cheeks paled. "I think I'm going home to mummy," she said trotting off down the lane, but Jack divided between anxiety and curiosity held his ground.
 
"Uncle Tom, what is it? Why don't you look at me?" he said, drawing near as the wagon approached.
 
"A girl who's very ill; I'm taking her to the doctor. Run home now, Jack. I may see you later. If Aunt Betty is about ask her to come on to the doctor's. I know she will be of use."
 
Jack took in the situation with one frightened glance. The bottom of the wagon was filled with a mattress and pillows on which a girl of about thirteen or fourteen was stretched. Her eyes were closed and lines of pain were round nose and mouth, and occasionally a moan of pain broke from her lips. Pain was a new experience in his childish life, and Jack, charged with his message, turned and fled.
 
He soon found Aunt Betty, and told her about it, and the next minute she had put on her hat and was flying by a short cut across the paddock towards the doctor's house where the wagon had just arrived.
 
Dr. Wilson gave a pleased nod when he caught sight of Betty.
 
"Run on, will you, to Mrs. Mason's, just opposite the church. She will take in my patient if she has a bed to spare, and knows the way to look after them," and Betty with one sympathetic glance at the pretty face of the sufferer sped on her way. Mrs. Mason was at home and was able to put a room at the doctor's disposal, and Betty only waited until the girl was safely lodged there and to find out if there were any needs that she and her mother could supply, before slipping off home again. She found the family at supper, but Jack saw the face that nearly always smiled at him shadowed with anxiety.
 
"Is it a bad case, do you think?" her mother asked. "What is the poor child's name?"
 
"Jessie Butler, and she comes from some back block behind Wylmington. The only chance of saving her life was to bring her right away to the doctor, so Mr. Chance saw to her removal, but the doctor thinks badly of her. It's some injury to her spine, and he must operate to-night."
 
Jack had laid down his knife and fork, and was listening with bated breath.
 
"He's so clever, p'raps he'll conquer," he said.
 
Mr. Treherne turned with a little smile at the quaint phrase.
 
"Who told you Dr. Wilson was clever?" he asked.
 
"Uncle Tom," said Jack flushing a little; the talk which had led up to the remark he kept to himself, but of the doctor's victory over pain he felt fairly confident, although facts seemed against him. After supper Betty ran down to Mrs. Kenyon's to ask for the latest news, but Clarissa could only tell her that her brother had looked in for a few minutes to snatch a meal, but had gone again to his patient who it was feared would not live throughout the night. It was not until daylight that he crept home to get a few hours' rest before his Sunday work. Jessie had dropped asleep, and seemed a little easier. Jack came as usual to walk with him to church.
 
"There must be no bell-ringing to-day, Jack," said Uncle Tom. "There is Jessie Butler, the girl I brought here yesterday, lying very ill just opposite the church, and we must make no unnecessary noise."
 
"Oh!" said Jack, drawing a deep breath of disappointment.
 
"I'm sure you would not wish to wake her out of sleep, would you?" said Tom kindly, "but there is something we can all do for her to-day which may be of real help to her."
 
"What," asked Jack eagerly.
 
"Pray for her at the service. You listen with all your ears, and you'll hear her name given, and the prayers of the congregation will be asked for her and you must say yours, Jack, say them with all your heart."
 
"But you said—you said Dr. Wilson was so clever that he often conquered pain," said Jack a little reproachfully.
 
"With God's help, yes! We none of us can do anything without it, and it's God's help we are going to ask for."
 
So Jack's service that morning was just one eager waiting for the mention of Jessie Butler's name, and when it came he folded his hands over his eyes and just said, "Jessie Butler, Jessie Butler," over and over again. No other words presented themselves to his mind, but surely the name so earnestly repeated reached the listening ear of the good God to whom he appealed.
 
The next few days were just a tussle between life and death with Jessie Butler, but life conquered, and on the fourth day the doctor was able to pronounce her out of danger. Her recovery would be slow and tedious, and she might have to remain where she was for a great many weeks, but she was going to live. Tom had confined his ministrations to the township during the days of danger, so as to be near when Jessie asked for him. He had taken his share of watching by her bed every night whilst the crisis lasted, and was as tender and handy as any woman, Mrs. Mason told the doctor.
 
"Yes, he's a good sort," said the doctor.
 
Jack's excitement and delight were great when Tom told him that Jessie was going to get better.
 
"Soon, will it be soon?" he said.
 
"No, it will be a long time before she's quite well, but she has taken the right turn."
 
"Is the pain gone?" asked Jack in a half whisper, remembering the white face and the little moan.
 
"It's better but not conquered yet, but it will get better every day. Would you like to come with me the next time I go, and take her a bunch of flowers?"
 
Jack's head went down. "Not if she shuts her eyes and makes a noise," he said.
 
"But her eyes are very big and wide open, and she'll smile at you and be so pleased to see you. I want you and Eva to go sometimes to see her. It's rather dull for her lying there all day long, although soon she will be wheeled out into the verandah."
 
Thus reassured Jack accepted Tom's suggestion. Yet he experienced an inward tremor as he found himself at the house-door which Tom opened and entered without knocking, but he knocked at the half-open door of the room just inside, and a girl's voice bade him enter.
 
"I've brought you a visitor, Jessie, a little boy who has been very anxious you should get well."
 
Jack laid his flowers on the bed. There was no room for fear or distress in looking at the girl who lay there with her pretty oval face framed in two big braids of dark hair, and with great, big grey eyes that smiled a welcome.
 
"Are they for me?" she said, nodding at the flowers. "I'd like 'em near, so as I could smell them," so Jack shifted his nosegay nearer the pillow.
 
"You must know his name, for he's coming again, and going to bring a little chum of his with him, my niece, Eva Kenyon. This is Jack Stephens, and his titles are numerous. He's Jack the Englishman, and Jack the Bell-ringer—he rings the bell in church, don't you, Jack?"
 
"Not last Sunday, because we didn't want to make a noise as you were ill," said Jack gravely.
 
"I'll hear it next Sunday, maybe," said Jessie. "I wish I could come. It's months and months since we've been to church. We live too far away from one, and I've been ill a long time, too."
 
"When you're well enough to be wheeled out into the verandah, you'll hear the hymns on Sunday night. We always prop the door open."
 
"That'll seem like old times," said Jessie, with quaint old-fashionedness. "I lived in the township with Grannie until I was ten years old, went to the State school every day and to Sunday school over there"—with a nod at the church. "Then Grannie died, and I went home to father and mother, but I don't like it. It's so lonesome in the bush. It's lovely to lie here and see the coach go by twice a day and the horses and bullock drays and things."
 
But Tom, watching the delicate face flush, thought Jessie had talked enough, and kneeling down, said a prayer or two, and standing, sang a hymn, and then bade the girl good-bye.
 
"Will you come again, and bring the little girl you spoke of?" asked Jessie, as Jack laid a shy hand in hers.
 
"Yes," said Jack gravely.
 
Once outside, he was full of talk about his visit.
 
"I shall go every day; she liked it, didn't she?"
 
"Yes, but you must not go too often yet, until she's stronger. She still has a good deal of pain to bear, though we hope it will grow less every day."
 
"I thought Dr. Wilson had conquered it."
 
"He's made it better, but only time can make her well."
 
"But she's smiling all the time."
 
"Yes, she's extraordinarily brave, as many girls are."
 
"Not so brave as boys," said Jack quickly.
 
"Often a great deal braver in bearing pain."
 
"I could take her some toys, p'raps," said Jack, not caring for the turn the conversation had taken.
 
"Books are more in her line; she's a great reader."
 
"I s'pose you'd have to read if you could not run about," Jack said.
 
"But Jessie loves reading as much as playing games, almost better,"—a statement so wonderful that it reduced Jack to silence.
 
"It was odd of you to take Jack to see that poor sick child," said Tom's sister that evening. "He's been telling Eva about it, and she's wild to go with him, but I don't think I shall let her."
 
"Why not?"
 
"Oh, I think children should be kept away from the sight of painful things as long as possible."
 
"But there is nothing painful to see in visiting Jessie. She's a singularly pretty child, lying in bed and nearly always smiling. Don't you think the sooner children learn to think about other people the better?"
 
"Oh, I don't know; let them be happy as long as they can, poor mites. I don't believe in leagues for making children kind. It only turns them into self-conscious prigs."
 
"I quite agree, but to teach children to minister to others without being conscious of such ministry, is surely only teaching them the lesson of unselfishness. They should give out sympathy as a rose gives out scent. Besides, I really think the child will be lonely when I'm away. I've been staying about here purposely, as long as she was in danger, but next week I must be off again about my business. Mrs. Mason gives her all the necessary looking after she requires, but has no time for sitting with her or diverting her thoughts, and it struck me that the children looking in from time to time would be very delightful for her and for them."
 
"Oh well, Eva shall go with Jack sometimes, and the fowls are laying pretty steadily now, so I shall be able to send a few eggs occasionally."
 
"I knew you would do what I asked; you always do," Tom said, smiling at his sister.
 
"But it's too delightful to have you here to ask things." said Clarissa, bending down to kiss him.
 
The pleasure the children's visits gave at the cottage was mutual. On their side it was delightful to plan little gifts by way of a surprise to Jessie, in which they were aided and abetted by their home people, but Jessie on her side proved a capital companion, who could teach them quiet games, such as "Beggar my neighbour," etc., or she would tell them wonderful tales of the bush, of fires, or people who were lost, tales that were true, that she had picked up from one or another.
 
But, greatly as Jessie looked forward to her little visitors, the happiest hours of her week were still on Saturday and Sunday, when her clergyman friend came to see her, for he was making the most of the time of Jessie's enforced inactivity to talk to her and teach her about sacred things, and he found in her one of the brightest and most intelligent pupils he had ever had. She was fairly familiar with the Bible stories, but as must necessarily be the case in wide districts where one clergyman has to do the work of four, her definite Church teaching was of the slightest.
 
And yet, that she had very strong groping in that direction was discovered to Tom one Sunday when, after some simple, direct teaching about her baptism, she looked up into his face with a sudden smile, and said:
 
"Why can't I be confirmed? I was all ready once, about six months ago. There was a confirmation at Wylmington, and then I could not go, and I cried myself sick with disappointment. I was ill, you see. My back had begun to be troublesome. Can't you confirm me?"
 
Tom did not smile at the vague conception of what confirmation meant, but answered the hungry longing for more grace that the question implied.
 
"You've asked me something I'm unable to give you, Jessie," he said gently. "The rite of Confirmation is not mine to perform. It's the Bishop, the chief shepherd of the flock, to whom belongs that Laying on of Hands, which brings with it, we believe, very special gifts of the Holy Spirit."
 
Jessie hung her head and blushed a little.
 
"I knew it was the Bishop who came to Wylmington, but I did not know just what you were. You seem quite different from most clergymen. I thought, maybe, you could confirm people."
 
"No, I'm just an ordinary every-day Parson, but as you seem keen about it, we will have some talks, and see how much you understand of its meaning. Who prepared you before?"
 
"Oh, Mr. Marston, the clergyman who has gone away ill, would stop after service on the Sundays; he came up to Wylmington, and told us boys and girls who wished to be confirmed to stay behind whilst he talked to us about it. And he asked us to get our Catechism perfect in between, and he said, if we kept regular to the Sunday class, he would try to see each one of us separately before the Bishop came, but I could only go to one or two of the classes, what with bad weather and being ill, but if I'd been well enough to get there on the day, I believe he'd have let me come, because I wanted it so much."
 
"Be confirmed, you mean," said Tom. "Why were you so eager?"
 
"Because, because," stammered Jessie with shining eyes, "it will help to make one good. You promise to be good, and God helps you."
 
It was not a very lucid way of explaining it, but the spirit was willing if the learning was weak, and Tom left her with a determination that, if possible, the girl should have her heart's desire.