eps. As he mounted the stairs
his back was so bent, his face so gray and careworn, that though
scarcely forty he looked like an old man.

This was Harold's one precious hour with his father, and the little
fellow was sitting up in bed and expecting him.

"Father," he said, noticing the anxious look on his face, which was
generally as serene and peaceful as the summer sea, "what is the matter?
You are ill; are you going to have the scarlet fever too?"

"No, my dear, dear boy. I am quite well, quite well at least in body. I
have a care on my mind that makes me look a little sad, but don't notice
it, Harold, it will pass."

"_You_ have a care on your mind!" said Harold in a tone of surprise. "I
know mother often, often has, but I did not think you had cares,
father."

"How can I help it, boy, sometimes?"

"I thought you gave your cares to God. I don't understand a bit how you
manage it, but I remember quite well your telling mother that you gave
your cares away to God."

The father turning round suddenly, stooped down and kissed the boy.

"Thank you, my son, for reminding me. Yes, I will give this care too to
God, it shall not trouble me."

Then the two began to talk, and the son's little wasted hand was held in
the father's. The father's face had recovered its serenity, and the
little son, though he coughed continually, looked happy.

"Father," he said suddenly, "there's just one thing I'm sorry for."

"What's that, my boy?"

"There were a whole lot of other things, father; about my never having
gone to live in the country, and those gypsy teas that mother told me
of. You light a fire outside, you know, father, and boil the kettle on
it, and have your tea in the woods and the fields. It must be just
delicious. I was sorry about that, for I've never been to one, never
_even_ to one all my life long; and then there's the pretty lady--I do
want to see my pretty lady once again. I was sorry about those things
all day, but not now. 'Tisn't any of those things makes me so sorry
now."

"What makes you sorry, Harold?"

"Father, I'm just a little bit jealous about Jesus. You see there's
always such a lot of us little children dying and going to heaven, and
He can't come for us all, so He has to send angels. Now I don't want an
angel, I want Him to come for me Himself."

"Perhaps He will, Harold," said his father, "perhaps Jesus will be so
very loving to His little lamb that He will find time to come for him
Him