Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her own, when she fell into violent hysterics.
“You didn’t give me a curl, Eva,” said her father, smiling sadly.
“They are all yours, papa,” said she, smiling—“yours and mamma’s; and you must give dear aunty as many as she wants. I only gave them to our poor people myself, because you know, papa, they might be forgotten when I am gone, and because I hoped it might help them remember. . . . You are a Christian, are you not, papa?” said Eva, doubtfully.
“Why do you ask me?”
“I don’t know. You are so good, I don’t see how you can help it.”
“What is being a Christian, Eva?”
“Loving Christ most of all,” said Eva.
“Do you, Eva?”
“Certainly I do.”
“You never saw him,” said St. Clare.