y eyes were completely softened and full of tears, and the
way that scarlet handkerchief flew about would have puzzled the closest
watcher, but Mrs. Dering saw nothing, heard nothing but his last
words:--"perhaps she may be cured." Almost unconsciously she stood up
and held out her hands.

"Oh, Mr. Congreve, do you mean it, indeed?"

"God bless my soul! mean it? Yes, I do, indeed. I do, with all my heart.
I'll feel like there was something for me to live longer for, and it
will put new, strong life into my dried-up old being, to see a child's
sunny face around my quiet home and to know that it is for her good that
I live. Ha! mean it? Yes, my dear madam; I should rather say I did mean
it."

It really seemed as though Mrs. Dering could not speak for the many
emotions that oppressed her, but after one or two glances at her face,
which caused the old gentleman to scout at the idea of her refusing, he
exclaimed with a fatherly benignity which sat oddly on his crusty
abruptness:

"There, there, dear child, go right off up stairs and think about it.
I'll just take a snooze right here by the fire, and then after awhile
we'll talk again. I don't think the little girl will object. I said a
few words to her this morning, and the idea pleased her, I am quite
sure."

So Mrs. Dering retired after a few inarticulate words of thanks or joy,
and after taking a tremendous tiff of snuff with such haste that it
nearly strangled him, Mr. Congreve settled into a comfortable, dreamy
state, where a face, long since gone from his home, looked out at him
from the fire with a smile, and then beside it came another, sweet and
patient, with soft eyes, and the two seemed to know each other, and as
they smiled, the one that was now an angel faded slowly and left the
other there looking at him with beseeching eyes.

There was the greatest commotion up stairs when Mrs. Dering told the
assembled girls of Mr. Congreve's proposition. Jean instantly hid her
face and began to cry, and influenced by this, the girls instantly
pounced upon Mr. Congreve, and declared it should not be.

"Why do you cry, dearie?" asked Mrs. Dering.

"I don't know," answered Jean, somewhat bewildered, as she looked around
on the indignant faces. "Because it seems so queer, I guess. I always
thought I would be crooked, and have to go on a crutch, and Uncle
Ridley,--he asked me to call him that,--says, perhaps, all the doctors
can cure me, and--and it seems so good that I