“She was hurted a long while ago and she can’t walk. Her little legs is just like a baby’s, an’ they never grow any more. But she won’t grow either, and I don’t so much mind so long as I can carry her.”
“Will she never walk again?” he asked in surprise. “How old is she?”
“She’s ten; but she’s littler than the boys now, so she’s the baby—the sweetest baby of thim all.”
Ah, what a wealth of love spoke in the tone, in the simple words.
“I think you may take off Bess’s cap,” he said, with an unconsciously tender manner. Poor little girl! And yet it could not be for very long. He noted the lines made by suffering, and his heart went out in sympathy.
“Now, if there is anything you would like to ask me—anything that puzzles you”—and he reflected that most things might seem mysteries to their untrained brains.
They glanced at each other and drew long breaths, as if this was the golden opportunity they had long waited for. Then an irresistibly shy, sweet, beseeching expression crossed Bess’s face, as her eyes wandered from him to her sister.
“O Dil—you might ast him ’bout—you know”—hesitating with pitiful eagerness in her large eyes—“’bout goin’ to heaven, an’ how far it is.”
“Do you know where heaven is, mister?”
The question was asked with the good faith of utter ignorance; but there was an intense and puzzled anxiety in every line of the child’s countenance.