"Well, but how can one; at least how can a rough boy like me? You can, Annie, I know. You do. Although you are often confined to this stupid bed for weeks at a time, you do more good, and make more people happy and comfortable, than any one in all the house. You are so good. It is easy for you."
"No, Georgie, it is not easy for me," she answered, her sweet, pale face, flushing at his praise. "I am not always kind. But a thought came into my mind about a year ago that has always helped me a great deal. I think God must have put it into my mind. Indeed I am sure he did, it has helped me so much."
"And what was the thought?" George asked eagerly.
"I was thinking how difficult it was to feel kindly, to feel rightly towards those whom we don't care for, who are not pleasant; and then it came all in a minute into my head, that we should find it much easier if we could only remember ever and always that everybody we meet must be either God's friend or God's enemy."
"But how could that help?" George asked, knitting his brows, as if greatly puzzled.
Annie tried to explain.
"You know," she said, "that there are no two ways about it,—that we must either be God's friend or his enemy."
"Yes," he answered thoughtfully; "papa made me see that long ago."
"And every boy you meet is either the one or the other, whatever else he may be, nice or not, pleasant and likable, or unpleasant and unlikable. If he be God's friend—if he be a boy who loves our dear Lord Jesus Christ," she went on, with an earnestness of feeling which brought tears to her eyes,—"a boy whom Christ loves, and for whom he died—a boy that Christ cares for, and is ever watching over, and in whose troubles and pleasures, joys and sorrows, Christ is tenderly concerned—O Georgie, if he be Christ's friend, must not we like to be kind to and help him, to do him as much good and as little harm as we can?"
"Yes, yes, I see," he answered softly, and with much feeling. Annie went on.