“Ay, my dearie, I suppose He knows everything.”
“I wish He would let me remember,” said the child, wistfully. “Do you think He will?”
“Yes, dearie, I do. He is very good to us, for all He sends us trouble sometimes. You can ask Him, you know, when you say your prayers to-night; you can ask Him any time.”
Bertie’s hand was pressed to his head, his eyes glowed strangely.
“Somebody said—” He paused, and then went on again, “Somebody said that we must not choose ourselves, only ask God to choose for us. I can’t remember just what it was. But it was like Jesus, you know, in the garden, when He said “Thy will be done,” to everything. I must say “Thy will be done” too, mustn’t I, about remembering things again? I know they said that—I can’t have made it up.”
He was growing distressed, as he so easily did when the vanished memory eluded his grasp; but Mrs. Pritchard took him into her motherly embrace and soothed and quieted him. Very soon the child was himself again, and looked at her with a smile.
“I’ve got ‘Our Father’ left still, you see, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, with a sort of quaint gravity that was very touching in its way. “He is my Father, isn’t He? even if I’m quite lost, He knows where I am, and He takes care of me, I’m sure. I don’t think He’ll ever quite forget me, and p’raps He’ll let me find my real home some day; but I’ll always say ‘Thy will be done’ about it.” Then, looking quickly up into the kind face above him, he asked, “Perhaps grandpapa will explain it all and help me. He had to say ‘Thy will be done’ when God took his little children away, and I suppose that was very hard.”
CHAPTER IV.
QUEENIE’S HOME.
