“Father I may I really believe that?”
“May! Thou must, if thou wouldst not make God a liar.”
“But what, then, have I to do?”
“What wouldst thou do for me, if I had rescued thee from a burning house, and lost my own life in the doing of it?”
“I could do nothing,” said Doucebelle, feeling rather puzzled.
“Wouldst thou love or hate me?”
“O Father! can there be any question?”
“And supposing there were some thing left in the world for which thou knewest I had cared—a favourite dog or cat—wouldst thou leave it to starve, or take some care of it?”
“I think,” was Doucebelle’s earnest answer, “I should care for it as though it were my own child.”
“Then, daughter, see thou dost that for Him who did lose His own life in rescuing thee. Love Him with every fibre of thine heart, and love what He has loved for His sake. He has left with thee those for whom on earth He cared most,—the poor, the sick, the unhappy. Be they unto thee as thy dearest, and He the dearest of all.”