“She isn’t the least like you. Who is she like?” inquired Miss Lyon.
“Her father. See, here is his miniature,” said the widow, drawing from her pocket a morocco case, and handing it to the old lady.
“Yes, she is like her father. What a very interesting face he has. Has he been dead long?”
“Three years last March; he died of consumption. I suppose she will go the same way,” said the widow, indicating her child.
“You should not let her hear you say so; if she gets the impression that she is to die of consumption because her father did she will probably do so,” whispered Mrs. Lyon. Then aloud she spoke this truth: “Nobody need die of consumption or of anything else except old age, unless they have a mind to. Plenty of good food and proper clothing, and out-door exercise will prevent consumption.”
And with a parting glance of pity at the pale child, the old lady left the room.
“You mustn’t mind what Mrs. Lyon says; she is not like us. She is a great lady, and thinks of nothing but taking her ease and indulging herself, and she fancies that we can do the same; but you know we can’t,” said the widow, applying the antidote to what she considered the poison that had been dropped into the child’s mind. “We must deny ourselves, and bear our burden, and after all it is easy enough to do.”
“Yes,” said the mite in the corner, repeating her Sunday school Scripture text, for our Saviour said, ‘Whosoever will come after me let him deny himself, take up his cross and follow me.’
“Yes, and if you don’t do it you know you will be eternally lost,” said the clergyman’s widow.
“Oh, but our Saviour will never let me be lost, no never; I know that much.”