Miss Patch had said, "Have faith and trust and all will come right some day," and Jessie did try to have faith, and to trust hopefully, though she worked hard and the fond poor, though her father was neglectful and cruel, and her mother gloomy and reserved.
"God make my life a little flower, That giveth joy to all, Content to bloom in native bower, Although its place be small." She sang, and she did try hard to be content, and to do what she could, and the result was that in many ways she was happy in spite of all.
She loved Miss Patch, and the lonely little old woman loved her, and helped her over many a stony bit of road.

Charlie loved her, and clung to her, too, and her mother, she fancied, was fond of her in her own quiet, cold way.

At any rate, she never beat her, as her father did, or scolded and bullied her.

But soon after her second year in London had begun a new trouble, and a very heavy one, came to Jessie.

Charlie, she was sure, was getting worse.
He was growing thinner, and paler, and feebler, week by week.
The first time the truth dawned on her was one Sunday, when he said languidly that he thought he would not go up to Miss Patch's room that afternoon, he was too tired.
Jessie was so astounded that for a second or so she could only stand and stare at him.