“No, why should I? everybody does except Mr. Randolph; and he—oh! I don’t suppose he meant to make fun of me.”
“Humph!” said the astute Virginia. “But never mind what he meant, I know his tricks and his manners. Louis, what you said was this, that you always thought of our Lord as a carpenter. Now, does that mean that you think of Him often? a bright, handsome boy like you! because I don’t, not more than once a week, on Sundays, you know; and yet girls,—one would think a girl had more time!”
“It’s while we’re at work,” answered the boy; “oh! I have plenty of time, Miss Dare. My father is a very silent man. When he does talk, what he says is well worth hearing; but he don’t talk much when we’re at work; and so I think of things then.”
“Things! do you mean our Lord?”
“Him, yes; and of Washington and Bonaparte; and our own Hermann, who fought the Romans; and Fra Angelico and Titian, and—oh! I couldn’t tell you half,” said Louis, smiling. “I’m here about every day, you know; and Fred and I talk about things and people; heroes and great artists, and all sorts of things. Fred believes that Jesus Christ was really God, you know, and so is alive still.”
“And don’t you?”
“No: I wish I did, but I can’t. I love Him, you know; I’d rather be like Him than any of those men I told you of; but I can’t feel Him, like Fred.”
“Feel Him; what do you mean?”
“Why, Fred says that sometimes, when he is suffering, he knows Jesus Christ is in the room, close by him; closer than any of us.”
“And that makes him always so bright and happy,” said Virgie under her breath.