"Oh, what beauties!" cried the child delightedly, "I haven't had any like them, have I, mother? Thank you very, very much, Mr. Betts. Please put them here, where I can see them, mother."
"And are you feeling a little better, missy?" asked Michael.
"Oh yes, much better, thank you. Mother says I shall soon be able to run about again, but I don't feel as if I should be able to run fast for some time to come. I can't even play with Noel yet. He seems so rough and noisy."
"I see you are able to amuse yourself with your book," Michael said.
"I like looking at the pictures," she replied, "but it tires me to read much. It is funny you should come just now, Mr. Betts, for I was only thinking of you a moment ago. I often think of you when I look at my 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"
"That's because you bought it of me, I suppose, missy."
She shook her head, and her little face grew thoughtful.
"No, that's not the reason. It's because I never can tell to what part of the book you belong. You can't be Christian or Faithful, don't you see, because you say you never did anything wrong in your life."
A deep, dull red suddenly suffused Michael's face.
"Don't say that, miss," he exclaimed in a tone of pain; "I never ought to have said it. When I spoke so I did not know myself."