get better to help to take care of your papa and make him better.'

Biddy started at this. It was a new idea.

'Do you think they'd let me?' she said in a half whisper. 'I thought I
was too little. Did you ever help to take care of your papa when he was
ill? But p'raps he's never been ill?'

'Oh yes, he has,' said Celestina, with a sigh. 'I think he's iller than
your papa very often. I do lots of things for him then: I make his tea
always, and tidy his room. And sometimes when he's getting better and
comes downstairs to the parlour I read aloud to him. For when he's ill,
mother has all the more to be in the shop, you know.'

Bridget listened intently. At last--

'Celestina,' she said, 'I do wish I could see papa. It would make me
_quite_ sure he's alive, you know, for it all seems so muddled in my
head since the day I was so naughty. And if he'd forgive me, and if he'd
get better, I think, _perhaps_, I'd ask God to make me better too, so
that I might make papa's tea and read aloud to him like you do.'

'Perhaps it wouldn't be exactly that,' said Celestina, a little afraid
of the responsibility of putting anything into Bridget's head, 'but I'm
sure you could do _something_. And why shouldn't you see him? Miss Alie
was in his room just now.'

Bridget would have hung her head if she had not been lying down. As it
was, she looked ashamed.