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“Your nose is out of joint, Edith! I’ve got a new sister.” But his eyes belied his blunt words. Moses adored his little foster-sister when she was well; but sick, his adoration turned to blind worship. For several days Betty had been ill. Moses’ religion, bottled up during care-free days, burst forth in foam of intercession for Betty’s return to health. Locked up! The child’s heart beat stiflingly; yet she did not cry out; she thought self-control would win her more favor than tears..

Immediately the button was forgotten, for an idea had come to him. He would burn down the door!I tried logging in using my phone number and I was supposed to get a verification code text,but didn't get it. I clicked resend a couple time, tried the "call me instead" option twice but didn't get a call either. the trouble shooting had no info on if the call me instead fails.There was “Children, you are all heirs. You are all heirs to God’s Kingdom. You all have work to do, responsibility to bear. You, too, will be asked some time: ‘What have you done upon earth? Have you been loving and kind? Have you tried to do what good you could?’ The greatest thing is to be loving; but you know that life demands from us not only love, but truth and obedience and much besides of which I will not speak now. I wish only that from this first visit to Kingthorpe you should take home with you this word: You are all God’s children, all heirs together of God’s Kingdom.”

“No; will you tell me?” What more might he do to hasten the Saturday work? He could not chop the kindling or fill the wood boxes. The weeding! It was behind. Both mother and sister had reminded him repeatedly, but he had forgotten. Only yesterday his sister had made tidy the flower beds that flanked the house; but the melons, the vegetables,—they were not done, and that would make no noise. While Betty, mounted on a bench in the shed, was getting down her watering-can, Job, who during the afternoon had searched diligently but vainly for her, rounded the corner of the garden fence. He noted the open gate and sped towards it. As he entered the garden his eye fell on St. Elmo who stood absorbed and expectant. The turkey, his odd corner-wise gait accentuated by his anxiety of mind, rushed towards the child who at first did not notice his approach. But presently, turning around, St. Elmo beheld an apparently formidable assailant which by the most powerful flight of imagination could not be mistaken for a fairy. All escape by way of the gate was shut off by the intruder. St. Elmo’s plump legs, bare above his low socks, twinkled as he ran wildly towards the foot of the garden. “Don’t sit there wool-gatherin’ anyways, Mose, or the moths’ll nest in yer head. Ef you carn’t sing in toon, you kin bring up a cup of tea fer Miss Gordon an’ Mr. Eliot, an’ don’t fergit Betty an’ yer Mar.”.