The nursery was a corner room, opening both into Faith's and her mother's. Hendie and Mahala Harris had been removed upstairs, and the apartment was left at Miss Sampson's disposal. Mrs. Gartney's bed had been made up in the little dressing room at the head of the front entry, so that she and the nurse had the sick room between them. Faith came down the two steps that led from her room into the nursery, the next night at bedtime, as Miss Sampson entered from her father's chamber to put on her night wrapper and make ready for her watch. "How is he, nurse? He will get well, won't he? What does the doctor say?" "Nothing," said Miss Sampson, shortly. "He don't know, and he don't pretend to. And that's just what proves he's good for something. He ain't one of the sort that comes into a sick room as if the Almighty had made him a kind of special delegit, and left the whole concern to him. He knows there's a solemner dealing there than his, whether it's for life or death." "But he can't help _thinking_," said Faith, tremblingly. "And I wish I knew. What do _you_--?" But Faith paused, for she was afraid, after all, to finish the question, and to hear it answered. "I don't think. I just keep doing. That's my part. Folks that think too much of what's a-coming, most likely won't attend to what there is." Faith was finding out--a little of Miss Sampson, and a good deal of herself. Had she not thought too much of what might be coming? Had she not missed, perhaps, some of her own work, when that work was easier than now? And how presumptuously she had wished for "something to happen!" Was God punishing her for that? "You just keep still, and patient--and wait," said Miss Sampson, noting the wistful look of pain. "That's your work, and after all, maybe it's the hardest kind. And I can't take it off folks' shoulders," added she to herself in an under voice; "so I needn't set up for the _very_ toughest jobs, to be sure." "I'll try," answered Faith, submissively, with quivering lips, "only if there _should_ be anything that I could do--to sit up, or anything--you'll let me, won't you?" "Of course I will," replied the nurse, cheerily. "I shan't be squeamish about asking when there's anything I really want done." Faith moved toward the door that opened to her father's room. It was ajar. She pushed it gently open, and paused. "I may go in, mayn't I, nurse, just for a good-night look?" The sick man heard her voice, though he did not catch her words. "Come in, Faithie," said he, with one of his half gleams of consciousness, "I'll see you, daughter, as long as I live." Faith's heart nearly broke at that, and she came, tearfully and silently, to the bedside, and laid her little, cool hand on her father's fevered one, and looked down on his face, worn, and suffering, and flushed--and thought within herself--it was a prayer and vow unspoken--"Oh, if God will only let him live, I will _find_ something that I can do for him!"