But Irene put her arms round Dorothy, and whispered,—
"I have been asking God to make your mamma better, and I think He will. Have you asked Him and told Him all about it?"
"About what?" Dorothy said.
"Everything—how sorry you are that you gave your mamma such anxiety; and have you asked to be forgiven?"
But Dorothy said,—
"I never tell God anything. I say my prayers, but I did not, could not, tell Him about such things as my slapping Baby Bob, and getting angry, and staying at home while you went to Colla. He is so far off, and besides——"
"Oh, Dorothy!" said Irene, seriously, "God is very near, Jesus is very near, and He cares about every little thing."
"Are you sure?" said poor little Dorothy. "Then He knows and cares about mother—mother——"
A sob choked her, and yet she tried not to give way; to cry very much would show that she believed her mother was very, very ill, and she could not, dare not believe it! But she said simply—
"I know I am not good; but I love—oh! how I do love mother!"