“But, mamma, isn’t God her father, as much as ours? Isn’t Jesus her Saviour?”
“Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody,” said Marie. “Where is my smelling-bottle?”
“It’s such a pity,—oh! such a pity!” said Eva, looking out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself.
“What’s a pity?” said Marie.
“Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live with angels, should go all down, down down, and nobody help them!—oh dear!”
“Well, we can’t help it; it’s no use worrying, Eva! I don’t know what’s to be done; we ought to be thankful for our own advantages.”
“I hardly can be,” said Eva, “I’m so sorry to think of poor folks that haven’t any.”
“That’s odd enough,” said Marie;—“I’m sure my religion makes me thankful for my advantages.”
“Mamma,” said Eva, “I want to have some of my hair cut off,—a good deal of it.”
“What for?” said Marie.