"I suppose you read your Bible every day?" he questioned.
"Every day. Mother and I used to read a chapter aloud every morning and every night."
"Well, look here, suppose you read it to me occasionally. There's poetry in that verse you repeated to me just now: 'Consider the lilies how they grow'—and there's a tone in your voice I like—it rings true. Will you read to me, or would you look on it in the light of an infliction?"
"Oh, no, no! I would do anything to please you, Uncle Guy, I would indeed," she answered in all sincerity.
"Thank you. You seem a good-natured little soul, and I believe we shall be friends. You don't get on with my father, Felicia?" he questioned.
"I—I—" stammered Felicia—"I don't see much of him, Uncle Guy; he's very kind to me, but I'm rather afraid of him."
"You need not be. By the way, you 're not afraid of me?"
"Not in the least. I like you—I do indeed."
"Ah! you don't really know me yet. My father is much more worthy of your liking than I am, as you will learn some day. Poor father! he has had many disappointments in his life, and I'm one of them, though nothing would make him admit it. Now, go and take off your hat, and order tea to be brought here; we will have it together."
"To think that she should set up for being religious," he mused, after Felicia had left the room to do his bidding; "and she was so serious about it too. Evidently she is sincere. That was a strange story about the lilies; it touched me somehow. 'Consider the lilies how they grow.' Ah, yes! one can believe in the God of love when one looks on the perfection of beauty, but it's the poor, misshapen allowed to disfigure the world that makes one doubt His omnipotence. Ah, me! I must be careful to say nothing to cloud that child's innocent faith. It must be a great solace to be able to believe that God is good."