"Yes, Jimmy, even you," was the reply.
"But I be so dirty and ugly," he said.
"God made you, dear, and He makes nothing ugly," replied the little girl soothingly.
"And you say we shall never hunger or thirst in heaven, and never feel pain any more. O Pollie, I wish I was there; nobody wants me here."
His little friend took his claw-like hand tenderly in hers and stroked it gently. She knew what a wretched life was his, and could not wonder at what he said—"nobody wants me here"—but her heart was full of sympathy for his loneliness.
"Shall I teach you a prayer to say to Jesus, Jimmy?" she asked after a pause of some length, during which her companion had been silently gazing up at the only piece of sky that was visible in that narrow court, as though trying to imagine where heaven really was, the child having pointed upwards whilst speaking of the home beyond the grave.
Pollie could not explain it correctly, but she did her best to make it easy to his benighted mind. She gave him her idea of what prayer is.
"It is speaking to God," she said with reverence.
"And will He listen to the likes of me?" was the question.