Before she could answer, a third time came the cry, this time in despairing though suppressed agony,—
"Mother, don't let them put me in a hole."
The mother gave a cry like the child's, and her heart within her became like water.
"Oh, God!" she gasped, and could say no more.
But with the prayer—for what is a prayer but a calling on the name of the Lord?—came to her a little calm, and she was able to speak. She bent over him and kissed his forehead.
"My darling Moxy, mother loves you," she said.
What that had to do with it she did not ask herself. The child looked up in her face with dim eyes.
"Pray to the heavenly father, Moxy," she went on—and there stopped, thinking what she should tell him to ask for. "Tell him," she resumed, "that you don't want to be put in a hole, and tell him that mother does not want you to be put in a hole, for she loves you with all her heart."
"Don't put me in the hole," said Moxy, now using the definite article.
"Jesus Christ was put in the hole," said the voice of the next elder boy from behind his mother. He had come in softly, and she had neither seen nor heard him. It was Sunday, and he had strolled into a church or meeting-house—does it matter which?—and had heard the wonderful story of hope. It was remarkable though that he had taken it up as he did, for he went on to add, "but he didn't mind it much, and soon got out again."