“I was real bad last week, but I’ve been forgived,” sobbed Maybee.
“My sweared a little swear yes’day, but my didn’t mean to; my said ‘Good Gwacious!’” moaned Tod.
“God doesn’t love us because we’re good,” said Say softly. “You know we’re all just as bad as can be.”
“I ain’t neither,” said Maybee stoutly. “I ain’t half so wicked as Tryphosa Harte.”
“Oh, but didn’t you know,” whispered Say, shivering as the back door rattled noisily, “Tryphosa is trying to be a Christian.”
“I guess I’m bad ’nough, and I’m real sorry,” said Maybee, quite subdued by another shake of the side door.
“Do you think God—is really close to, near enough to help us?” asked Sue earnestly. “You ask him, Say; you’re so much better than I.”
They kneeled down in a row beside the bed. Outside, three desperate men had succeeded in partly raising a window. A little more, and it would admit them. Miles away, papa and Uncle Thed were driving leisurely along, never dreaming Bridget had left their dear ones unprotected save by the Eye that never sleeps.
What was there to prevent a deed of blood, as dreadful as those we read of almost every day?
What but God’s angels, if so be they were around those helpless little ones, as they were around the prophet Elisha in olden time,—invisible but strong.