'
'Of course I meant him. There never was another.'
'I have heard tell--p'raps it was yourself, sir--as how he didn't
come down upon us over hard after all, bless him!'
Falconer sat down on the side of the bed, and read the story of
Simon the Pharisee and the woman that was a sinner. When he ceased,
the silence that followed was broken by a sob from somewhere in the
room. The sick woman stopped her moaning, and said,
'Turn down the leaf there, please, sir. Lilywhite will read it to
me when you're gone.'
The some one sobbed again. It was a young slender girl, with a face
disfigured by the small-pox, and, save for the tearful look it wore,
poor and expressionless. Falconer said something gentle to her.
'Will he ever come again?' she sobbed.
'Who?' asked Falconer.
'Him--Jesus Christ. I've heard tell, I think, that he was to come
again some day.'
'Why do you ask?'
'Because--' she said, with a fresh burst of tears, which rendered
the words that followed unintelligible. But she recovered herself
in a few moments, and, as if finishing her sentence, put her hand up
to her poor, thin, colourless hair, and said,
'My hair ain't long enough to wipe his feet.'
'Do you know what he would say to you, my girl?' Falconer asked.
'No. What would he say to me? He would speak to me, would he?'
'He would say: Thy sins are forgiven thee.'
'Would he, though? Would he?' she cried, starting up. 'Take me to
him--take me to him.
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