"I shan't ever eat any more French sugar-plums," then as the recollection of a tempting box of these delicacies came over her,—"'cept only there are three candied apricots in the box papa brought me last night. I'll eat two of them, and give you the other; and then never eat another thing, 'cause nobody believes me; and it is true,—oh! it is."
"I b'lieve you, dear," said Belle. "I don't think you would be so bad to me,—truly I don't."
"Don't you?" said Mabel, turning around her flushed, tear-stained face; "then I'll give you two apricots, Belle, and only keep one myself; and then starve myself. You're real good to me, Belle, and nobody else is. You're the only friend I have left in the world," she concluded in a tragic whisper, as she sat up and dried her eyes.
"I'll try to coax them not to think you did mean to keep it and tell a story about it," said her little comforter.
"Belle, what makes you so good to me, when I was so bad to you?" asked Mabel.
"'Cause I want you to love me, and be good to me too," answered Belle. "And, besides, Jesus don't want us to be good only to people who are good to us. He wants us to be good to people who are bad to us too."
Mabel sat looking at her cousin in some wonder.
"Do you care very much what Jesus wants?" she asked presently.
"Why, yes," said Belle: "don't you?"
"What does He think about me, I wonder?" said Mabel, musingly, without answering Belle's question, which indeed answered itself, as the recollection of some of her cousin's naughty freaks returned to her. But she said nothing about these; for Mabel's speech brought a thought which she hastened to put into words, thinking that it might give the latter some comfort.