"The Lord Jesus? Tell me about Him, mademoiselle; I have heard the name—who is He?"
"The Lord Jesus is He who died on the cross, that you might go to Heaven. He suffered much before He died. They despised Him. They beat Him. They spat in His face. Even His own friends deserted Him and He was so poor that He didn't have any place at night to lay His head. Yet, He was God Himself. He died for our sins—and He rose from the dead. He is now in Heaven, and He waits to receive you there, Louisa. None of us deserve to go to Heaven, but He who was so perfect suffered in our stead. He died for all of us sinners that we might be pardoned. I wish I could explain it better, much better, but Jesus loves you, Louisa. I know He loves you more than you could ever dream."
Louisa's wrinkled face lighted with a smile; but she did not seem able to believe or comprehend this good news, which came to her, oh, so late in life.
"Oh, if it were only true," she murmured, as she clasped her hands together and her eyes filled with tears.
"But it is true, Louisa; don't you believe it? See here, He knows very well you live here alone with your cat, and that you are so sad, and that you have nobody else to care for you. He wishes to be your Friend, and He will be if you will ask Him. Why not ask Him now, Louisa?"
"Oh, perhaps so, some day, mademoiselle."
"Do it now, Louisa."
"No, no; not now."
"Oh, why not now, Louisa?"
"Because I don't understand very well, mademoiselle. How could God love me, a poor, forlorn, useless old woman, who never loved Him, nor served Him. You come back again. Perhaps I'll end up by understanding better. And now, good-bye, mesdemoiselles. I have delayed you both too long."