“Oh no. I don’t think I should be afraid to go with the angel—only I should be afraid, I think, to die.”
“But,” said Phil in a slow, thoughtful way, “I think dying just means going away with God’s angel. I don’t think there’s any difference.”
Winifred was silent awhile, and then said slowly:
“If that’s it, Phil, perhaps I shouldn’t be afraid, for I do love Jesus, and I should like to see Him. Phil, do you think the angel will come for me soon?”
Phil looked at the child, his great hollow eyes full of thought, and answered gravely;
“I don’t know, Miss Winnie.”
“I am not ill like you, am I?”
“No, not like me.”
“Do you think I am ill?”
“Some folks think so, Miss Winnie, by all I hear; but nobody can tell when we shall die except God, and it can’t much matter so long as He knows, can it?”