“Nor even now would it be easy, even for an unbeliever, to find a better translation for the rule of virtue from the abstract into the concrete, than to endeavor so to live that Christ would approve our life.”
While she was still musing, a sound of piteous crying attracted her notice. Looking up she saw a tiny child wandering along the beach, trailing a wooden spade after her, and sobbing as if her heart would break. In a moment Erica was beside her coaxing and consoling, but at last, finding it impossible to draw forth an intelligible word from the sobs and tears, she took the little thing in her arms and carried her to her father. Raeburn was a great child lover, and had a habit of carrying goodies in his pocket, much to the satisfaction of all the children with whom he was brought in contact. He produced a bit of butterscotch, which restored the small maiden's serenity for a minute.
“She must have lost her way,” he said, glancing from the lovely little tear-stained face to the thinly shod feet and ungloved hands of the little one. The butterscotch had won her heart. Presently she volunteered a remark.
“Dolly putted on her own hat. Dolly wanted to dig all alone. Dolly ran away.”
“Where is your home?” asked Erica.
“Me don't know! Me don't know!” cried Dolly, bursting into tears again, and hiding her face on Raeburn's coat. “Father! Father, Dolly wants father.”
“We will come and look for him,” said Erica, “but you must stop crying, and you know your father will be sure to come and look for you.”
At this the little one checked her tears, and looked up as if expecting to see him close by.
“He isn't there,” she said, piteously.
“Come and let us look for him,” said Erica.