On Tuesday morning it was a bit of village news that was passed from mouth to mouth, that the minister's little girl had diphtheria, and that the house was placarded. The occupants of the Manse were deeply touched during the following days by that spontaneous expression of practical sympathy that is characteristic of village life. But perhaps no one stirred the deepest emotions as did John Gage. Darkness had fallen over the village on Tuesday before he had heard of Ruth's sickness. There was some look of solicitation on Mrs. Short's face when John "guessed" he would stroll to the village. He answered the look by saying almost curtly, "I'm going to the Manse." The little patient's symptoms showed severe infection, and a second doctor was in consultation when the minister heard a very gentle rap on the door. "Sorry I can't ask you in, John," he said, as he saw John standing on the verandah. "How is she?" asked the caller, in a tone that revealed a great concern. "She is a very sick little girl, John. Dr. Dodds is with Dr. Burnett just now. We can only give her the best care possible, and hope and pray. It is good of you to call, and when the wee girl is better she will be pleased to know you came. The poor little soul has been restless and feverish all the afternoon." "Poor little gal! Tell her John hopes she'll soon be alright. I ain't much of a friend, God knows, but all the same I've been that lonesome like, since I heard she was sick, I don't feel as if I want to do anything, but just wait around. If there's any job I can do to help, I give you my word I'll be in trim to do it as long as the little gal needs me." For two weeks John's "little gal" caused anxious days and nights--some of them days and nights when tearful prayers were sobbed out in the solitariness of study or bedroom--times when the physicians found no hopeful signs, and the little life seemed to be passing beyond human reach. It was on one such night that John brought a few delicacies from the farm for the minister's household, and waited for the report from the sick-room. "The doctor has been with her an hour, John, and the wee girl is alive, and that's all we can say." The voice broke into a sob as the last words were spoken. The two men stood in silent sympathy for a few minutes, and then John broke the silence. "She was friendly to me, sir, and I'll never forget it. Lots of folks what thinks they're big toads in the puddle treats me as if I was dirt, but the little gal is the biggest Christian of the lot, and she's done me more good than the whole gang of 'em. Say! the way she put her little hand on my face that Sunday morning was better'n any sermon I ever heard. Queer, ain't it, but it broke me all up." Then in response to a request from the minister John continued, "I'm afeared it wouldn't count much if I tried to pray, sir; but there ain't anything I wouldn't try my hand at for her."