Tess was a precocious eight-year-old when she overheard her parents discussing her little brother, Andrew. She understood he was gravely ill, and the family was destitute. Her father whispered desperately to her weeping mother, "Only a miracle can save him now."
Tess went to her room, retrieved a hidden glass jelly jar, and carefully counted all her change three times. Satisfied with the exact total, she slipped out and walked six blocks to the pharmacy with the red Indian Chief sign.
She tried patiently to get the busy pharmacist's attention, first by scuffing her feet, then by clearing her throat. Finally, she banged a quarter on the counter. Annoyed, the pharmacist asked what she wanted.
"I want to talk to you about my brother," Tess replied in a matching tone. "He's really sick, and I want to buy a miracle."
"We don't sell miracles here," the pharmacist said, softening slightly.
"I have money," Tess insisted. "Just tell me how much it costs."
The pharmacist's well-dressed brother, visiting from Chicago, stooped down. "What kind of miracle does your brother need?"
"I don't know," Tess said, eyes welling up. "He needs an operation, but Daddy can't pay. I want to use my money."
"How much do you have?" the man asked.
"One dollar and eleven cents," she whispered. "It's all I have, but I can get more."
"What a coincidence," the man smiled. "That's the exact price of a miracle for little brothers." He took her money, held her mitten, and said, "Take me to your home. Let's see if I have the miracle you need."
The man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a neurosurgeon. He performed the surgery free of charge, and Andrew soon recovered at home.
Her parents marveled at the miraculous turn of events. "I wonder how much that surgery cost," her mother whispered.
Tess smiled. She knew exactly the price of a miracle: one dollar and eleven cents, plus the faith of a little child.