The hymnist puckered her forehead. "I can remember the beginning of the opening one," she said; "it was a six-line-eights, and we sang it to a tune called Stella; it began thus: "How can we sing like little birds, And hop about among the boughs? How can we gambol with the herds, Or chew the cud among the cows? How can we pop with all the weasles Now Christopher has got the measles?" "Bravo!" exclaimed the subject of the hymn. "You are a born hymn-writer, Elisabeth. The shades of Charles Wesley and Dr. Watts bow to your obvious superiority." "Well, at any rate, I don't believe they ever did better at fourteen; and it shows how anxious I was about you even then when you were ill. I am just the same now--quite as fond of you as I was then; and you are of me, too, aren't you?" "Quite." Which was perfectly true. "Then that's all right," said Elisabeth contentedly; "and, you see, it is because I am so fond of you that I tell you of your faults. I think you are so good that I want you to be quite perfect." "I see." The missionary spirit is an admirable thing; but a man rarely does it full justice when it is displayed--toward himself--by the object of his devotion. "If I wasn't so fond of you I shouldn't try to improve you." "Of course not; and if you were a little fonder of me you wouldn't want to improve me. I perfectly understand." "Dear old Chris! You really are extremely nice in some ways; and if you had only a little more heart you would be adorable. And I don't believe you are naturally unfeeling, do you?" "No--I do not; but I sometimes wish I was." "Don't say that. It is only that you haven't developed that side of you sufficiently; I feel sure the heart is there, but it is dormant. So now you will talk more about feelings, won't you?" "I won't promise that. It is rather stupid to talk about things that one doesn't understand; I am sure this is correct, for I have often heard you say so." "But talking to me about your feelings might help you to understand them, don't you see?" "Or might help you." "Oh! I don't want any help; feelings are among the few things that I can understand without any assistance. But you are sure you are all right, Chris, and haven't got a headache or anything?" And the anxious expression returned to Elisabeth's face. "My head is very well, thank you." "You don't feel any pain?" "In my head? distinctly not." "You are quite well, you are certain?" "Perfectly certain and quite well. What a fidget you are! Apparently you attach as much importance to rosy cheeks as Mother Hankey does." "A pale face and dark hair are in her eyes the infallible signs of a depraved nature," laughed Elisabeth; "and I have both." "Yet you fly at me for having one, and that only for a short time. Considering your own shortcomings, you should be more charitable."