"What makes you ask?"
"'Cause you don't look as if you was—so very?"
"Perhaps I am not," Julia admitted. "But you mustn't repeat that to anybody."
"Not to my Marjory?"
"No, certainly not."
Mittie pressed her little self closer to Julia's side in affectionate wise. "I do love you to-day,—ever so much. And I know quite well why you're not happy. It isn't because you're naughty. You're good."
"No; not good. No; I wish I were."
"Then, Aunt Julia, if you aren't good, why don't you tell Jesus?"
The childish question, falling reverently from those rosy lips, dropped like dew of heaven upon the arid plain of Julia's heart. She said nothing for two or three seconds, only turned the words over in her mind. But a counter-query rose, and she spoke it out, "If I did—what then?"
"Why, Aunt Julia! Don't you know that everybody who came to Him was always healed? Marjory says so."