“Es, ma’am; Essie—Indy.”
“And how old are you, Essie?”
“Me—two—doin’ on fee.”
Mrs. Force looked at the mother for a translation of these words.
“She is two years, going on three,” laughed little Mrs. Ingle.
Mrs. Force continued her catechism of the child, who answered in broken baby language, but with rare intelligence, and still with such simple reverence and admiration as touched the lady’s heart.
“Oh, Natalie!” she said, “can there be anything more spirit-searching to a grown-up sinner than the innocent reverence and trust of a child! Lo! they think us so wise and so good, while we know ourselves to be so foolish and evil! Ah me, Natalie!”
Young Mrs. Ingle made no reply, but looked puzzled and distressed while little Essie put up her hand timidly—reverentially, and stroked the fair cheek of the lady, with some vague instinct of tenderness and sympathy.
“Oh, mamma, look at little Wynnie! sweet, little Wynnie! You have not noticed her yet!” said Elva, reproachfully, as she arose, and brought the infant to her mother.
“Wynnie?” inquired Mrs. Force, looking up into Natalie Ingle’s face, as she sat Essie on the carpet and took the babe on her lap.