"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth," said Marion.
"That may be true in some cases, but I have no right to believe it applies to me. He loved the child, I would fain believe; for I dare not think of her either as having ceased to be, or as alone in the world to which she has gone. You do think, Miss Clare, do you not, that we shall know our friends in another world?"
"I believe," answered Marion, "that God sent you that child for the express purpose of enticing you back to himself; and, if I believe any thing at all, I believe that the gifts of God are without repentance."
Whether or not he understood her she could not tell, for at this point Judy came in. Seeing them together she would have withdrawn again; but her husband called her, with more tenderness in his voice than Marion could have imagined belonging to it.
"Come, my dear. Miss Clare and I were talking about our little angel. I didn't think ever to speak of her again, but I fear I am growing foolish. All the strength is out of me; and I feel so tired,—so weary of every thing!"
She sat down beside him, and took his hand. Marion crept away to the children. An hour after, Judy found her in the nursery, with the youngest on her knee, and the rest all about her. She was telling them that we were sent into this world to learn to be good, and then go back to God from whom we came, like little Amy.
"When I go out to-mowwow," said one little fellow, about four years old,
"I'll look up into the sky vewy hard, wight up; and then I shall see Amy,
and God saying to her, 'Hushaby, poo' Amy! You bette' now, Amy?' Sha'n't I,
Mawion?"
She had taught them to call her Marion.
"No, my pet: you might look and look, all day long, and every day, and never see God or Amy."
"Then they ain't there!" he exclaimed indignantly.