"Call me Sister Martin, for that is what I want to be to each one of you," said the woman, with a smile at the boy's look of wonder.
"You made me think of my mother," said Eric, the tears slowly filling his eyes as he spoke.
"Where is your mother?" asked Sister Martin. And she was going to add, "Why have you been sent here?" But the boy's answer arrested her attention too closely.
"My mother went home to our Father in heaven about a year ago," he replied.
"Can you say 'Our Father,' then?" asked she eagerly, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and drawing further from the crowd.
Eric hesitated for a moment. "I am not sure whether I can. I have thought He had forgotten me, or that there was no God. I could not tell which it was, and I have been very miserable."
"My poor boy, has life been so very hard for you, then? Had you no friends who could help you?"
"My only friend was thrown out of his gig and killed, and I believe some thought I had done it; for they called my mother a witch and a Methodist."
"But if she was a Methodist, surely the people called Methodists would have helped you?"
"But I would not have had their help," replied Eric, almost fiercely; "my mother was no Methodist, but a good woman who loved and served God, and taught me to believe that He was my Father, who would care for me and love me."