She had not replied to my question, so I repeated it eagerly. "Did my dear mother send you to me?" I said. "And where is she now?"
"No, tender child! I have not seen your mother. She is in heaven, I trust; where I hope we shall all be some day—with God. He sent me to you, probably—I fancy so, at least."
"Then God has got good again. He was very bad last week—very wicked; he killed our mother," whispering mysteriously.
"He is never bad, Miriam, never wicked; you must not say such things—no Christian would."
"But I am not a Christian, Mrs. Austin says; only a Jew. Did you ever hear of the Jews?"
Evelyn laughed, Mrs. Austin frowned, but Miss Glen was intensely grave, as she rejoined:
"A Jew may be very good and love God. That is all a little child can know of religion. Yet we must all believe God and His Son were one." The last words were murmured rather than spoken—almost self-directed.
"Is His Son a little boy, and will he be fond of my mother?" I asked. "Will she love him too? Oh, she loved me so much, so much!" and, in an agony of grief, I caught Miss Glen around the neck, and sobbed convulsively on her sympathetic breast. Again Evelyn smiled, I suppose, for I heard Miss Glen say, rebukingly:
"My dear Miss Erle, you must not make light of your little sister's sufferings. They are very severe, I doubt not, young as she is. All the more so that she does not know how to express them."
Revolving these words, I came later to know their import. They seemed unmeaning to me at the time, but the kind and deprecating tone of voice in which they were conveyed was unmistakable, and that sufficed to reassure me.