It seemed quite natural to Jack that Jessie's strength improved marvellously from the day of her confirmation, for although Tom had tried to teach him something of the outward sign which denotes the spiritual grace, his childish mind recurred to his first idea, and he did not for a moment question that Jessie's quickened recovery was chiefly due to the Bishop's laying on of hands.  
"You said the Bishop's hands would make her strong, didn't you?" he remarked one day to Tom, and Tom smiled down on him.
 
"I was talking of her soul rather than her body, Jack, but it seems as if God in His goodness were sending her both together."
 
So it was that from sitting up in a chair for a considerable portion of the day, Jessie soon began to walk a little, first to the garden gate, then a few steps along the road, and one summer evening in the autumn, to Jack's great excitement and delight, he saw her seated in a chair at the bottom of the church when he went down as usual to ring the bell. What did not please him so well was that his wandering thoughts in the service were brought back to everyday life by the mention of her name in church, in what connection he was too greatly astonished to discover. He was only certain that he had heard her name, and what could be the good of saying prayers for her when she was sitting behind all the time and looking nearly well? His puzzledom, it almost might be called annoyance, at the unreasonableness of the thing kept his mind straying for the remainder of the service, and he was glad that under cover of waiting behind to carry something back for Uncle Tom after church, he had a chance of putting the matter before him.
 
"Uncle Tom, we didn't want to pray for Jessie Butler, to-night. What did you do it for? Did not you see, she was in church and quite better?" he said.
 
"Which shows you weren't listening very much, Jack, or you would have found out we weren't praying for her in the way of asking God to give her anything. We were thanking Him for making her better, and, of course, it was much better to wait until she could be there to give thanks for herself. It would have very little meaning else. Now, I will tell you a story," and very picturesquely Tom related the story of the ten lepers.
 
"Only one out of the whole lot, Jack, who remembered to give thanks to God. A lot of us are like that! We say 'Give us this day our daily bread,' and at the end of the day we forget to thank God for the food we never lack."
 
Jack said little, but the lesson went home.
 
Jessie's lessons with her clergyman still continued for many weeks after her confirmation, for Tom was preparing her for her first Communion, and the next time he was able to hold a celebration at the little church, Jessie was one of the communicants. Jack's interest over that was far less keen than about her confirmation. It was "something grown-up people stayed for, and children could not," was all that he grasped at present, and Tom left it at that, willing that the teaching about the greatest Sacrament should be given a little later. Very quickly after Jessie's first Communion there came the letter suggesting that it was time for her to go home. She was quite independent now of the doctor's attendance. She showed the letter to Tom when he came to see her, making no comment.
 
"You'll be glad to go back and see them all again, I expect," but Jessie lifted her great eyes to him quite full of tears.
 
"Yes—no—" she said. "Of course, I want to see them, but although I've been ill down here, and had a lot of pain, I've had the happiest time of my life. You've taught me a lot, and I've been confirmed and been to Communion, and when I go back I'll see no one p'raps for weeks and weeks. It seems so easy to be good when you are here, but when no one talks to you, and Sunday after Sunday you never get nigh a church, and you work and work and always feel tired it doesn't come so easy."
 
"But you won't work for a bit yet, Jessie; you're not fit for it."
 
"It's easier to work than to sit still all day and do nothing, and see mother bustling round with never a minute to herself. Here there is no work I ought to be doing, you see."
 
Tom sat pondering. "Well, for the present you must try and make yourself content. I quite see that your father and mother, hard-working people, can't afford to keep you here any longer than is necessary——"
 
"Yes, I was selfish. I'd forgotten that," said Jessie.
 
"And I want you to think of this, Jessie; that God who has given you so much help lately will still be near you, and able to keep you in the straight path when He takes some of those helps away. I know it's much more difficult for you, but it may help to strengthen your spiritual life, to teach you to stand alone. You'll say your prayers and keep your Bible reading regular."
 
"Yes," Jessie said, "but it's not easy when there's no one who can tell you what it means when you get puzzled."
 
"I can't quite tell where I shall go when my time here comes to an end, but I will try and see you sometimes."
 
"Oh, thank you, ever so much! That will make everything different; for when I sit sewing in the verandah—I'll do all the sewing—I shall feel that one time I shall look up and see you come riding through the bush, and p'raps—p'raps, if you've nowhere else to go, you'll stop the night. Mother would be pleased."
 
"There are many more improbable things than that," Tom said.
 
The children were loud in their lamentations over Jessie's leaving.
 
"Why can't you stop forever and ever?" Eva demanded.
 
"Because I've got a mother and father who want me back again."
 
"It's miles and miles away; we can't come and see you, can we?" said Jack.
 
"Oh, I don't know. We're three miles back from Wylmington Falls, where people come picnicing in summer time. If you came out there one day you might get on to us."
 
It did not sound very probable.
 
"When are you going?" he asked rather drearily.
 
"The day after to-morrow; they're sending the buggy to fetch me."
 
"We'll come to the corner at the bottom of the lane to see you and wave to you, won't we, Eva?"
 
"Yes, wave to you," echoed Eva, beginning to smile again, the prospect of active service consoling her for Jessie's departure.
 
So on the following Saturday two eager children, with flowers in one hand and handkerchiefs in the other, stood waiting at their corner. This time the waiting was a short one, for a buggy came slowly up the hill, and in front, supported by cushions, sat Jessie by her father's side, whilst her small belongings were packed in behind; and at sight of the waiting pair, Mr. Butler drew rein and Eva climbed up with Jack's assistance to give Jessie a parting kiss, and Jack lifted his cap and presented his flowers, holding himself very straight lest Jessie should offer to kiss him too; but she knew better, only shook him heartily by the hand, and thanked him for all his kindness and then the buggy moved on, followed by the shouts of the children.
 
"But I wish she hadn't gone," said Jack as the carriage and its occupants were lost to sight. "We'll miss her every day."
 
Tom came up to the farm that evening for he had something to discuss, and wanted Betty's counsel.
 
"You know what girls can do more than I," he said when he had settled down to his pipe in the verandah. "I've Jessie Butler on my mind. My time here now is short——"
 
"Oh, I didn't know you were leaving at any definite time," said Betty quickly.
 
"Nor did I until to-day, but I've a letter from the Bishop to say that your late vicar has resigned, and that he is going to put in a younger man who can compass the work better."
 
"Why not you?"
 
"Because I refused to take it," said Tom simply. "It's not what I came out for, although I've had a very happy time here."
 
"And the new man is coming soon?"
 
"As soon as the Bishop can find him. He has one or two that he would like to send here, but I'm wandering from my point. Before I leave, I should like to find something for Jessie to do. She's utterly unfitted for life on a back block. It's too rough for her, and the work too heavy. She can't do anything yet, but before the winter sets in I'd like to see her settled at work she can do, something fairly quiet and regular. What do delicate girls do? What are they fit for," and Tom glanced appealingly at Betty.
 
"Sewing would be too sedentary, and she would not get it either, living where she does," said Betty.
 
"That's just it; I want to move her from where she is, but she's not strong enough for service."
 
"She might help in an infant school where such help is needed. She has read a good deal and passed all her standards, and has picked up a good deal of desultory knowledge which, from what the children tell me of the way she talks to them, I should think she had a gift for imparting."
 
"The very thing," cried Tom, "and I believe there is an opening at Wylmington, which has the advantage of not being far from home in case of a breakdown. I was in the little school there the other day, and the teacher, Miss Armstrong, was saying that it was imperative that she must have help with the tinies, and that she had written to the department about it. Now, if I could only put an oar in and get the post for Jessie, she could spend her s............