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 Himself." "Oh, father! when you are giving Him your new care to-night, will you just ask Him not to be so dreadfully busy, but to try and come Himself?" "Yes, Harold," said the father. After this promise little Harold went to sleep very happily. CHAPTER XXIII. "THY WILL BE DONE." "You always give your cares to God," little Harold had said to his father.