It was a brown cottage, very like mine, only that one was hung with cobwebs, and the dust was an inch thick upon the floor, and the window
was so begrimmed that scarcely any light came through.
“Ugh!” said the lady, as she stood upon the threshold and looked in.
“Bring me a broom!” And she brushed away the hanging webs, and made the floor neat and clean, and taught the child to wash the window, until the bright sun came in and played about the floor and upon the walls; and then she made the little girl wash her face and hands, and put on a better frock, that she found in the chest.
“Now, my little princess,” said she, “come outside for a while, in the fresh air, and I will talk to you.”
“Why do you call me ‘little princess’?” asked the child, as they sat down upon the cottage-step, while the birds twittered about them and the sweet breath of summer touched their cheeks.
“Because you are the daughter of
a great King,” said the lady, gently stroking her soft, brown hair, that she had found so tangled and shaggy, but had made so nice and smooth.
“My father was a poor man, and he lies in the graveyard,” said the little girl, as she looked wonderingly at her friend.
“Yes; but I mean your heavenly Father,” said the lady—“he whom we call God. Surely you have heard of him, my dear child!”