“It is an angel.”
“Winifred,” said the angel, softly and yet gravely, “have you nothing inside you that tells you when you do right and when you do wrong?”
Slowly Winnie’s eyes fell, and the rosy colour mounted to her cheeks.
“I do try not to do wrong. I don’t think I am very naughty,” she said, as if excusing herself.
“Did I say you were?” asked the angel.
“It seemed as if you did.”
The angel smiled at her a sort of pitying smile.
“Is it I that spoke, my child? or the something in your heart to which you do not always listen?”
“I do what I can,” said Winifred, still seeming to answer a different voice from the angel’s. “I am not strong. I can’t do like other people; and besides, little girls can’t do things. I am going to try before I go away, but I’ve never been able before.”
“Never?”