"If I did, my darling, it was very wrong," he replied, gravely, "and showed a great want of trust in our Heavenly Father."
"I could not sleep for thinking of you, and wishing I were older, that I might really be able to help you."
"Poor little Cicely," he said, tenderly taking the sweet, earnest face between his hands. "Poor little right hand—old before her time. You must not take up our cares, darling. Indeed, if we older people had more faith we should never fret or worry either, but, instead, cast all our cares upon the Lord who cares for us."
"What are you and father talking about? You are both so grave," said Rachel, as she came running up to them. "Cicely looks just like that picture we have up in our room—St. somebody or other—I can't remember the name. Not anybody in the Bible, you know," said Rachel, garrulously, "but it's just like Cicely, when she is in white and grave, isn't it, father? Only she's got no halo round her head."
"You little chatterbox!" said her father, laughing, "it's a pity someone else has not a little more gravity herself."
"Oh, I can look very grave if I like, father. I practise sometimes in front of the glass, and I make such a long face—really, yards long."
"Did you measure it with your yard measure, Rachel?"
"Oh, no. But you know what I mean—as long as yours, and mother's, and Cicely's."
"Well, I am sure we all feel very flattered," said her father, smiling. "What a little pickle you are."
"A pickle! what is that? I thought it was something to eat. Is it nice?"