Mrs. Ogilvie always turned aside when Sibyl spoke to her about her love for the Lord Jesus. Not that she considered herself by any means an irreligious woman. She went to church always once, and sometimes twice on Sunday. She subscribed to any number of charities, and as the little girl now spoke her eyes became full of a soft light.
“We can have a bazaar here,” she said, “a bazaar for the Home for Incurables at Watleigh. Lady Severn was talking to me about it last night, and said how terribly it needed funds. Sibyl, when father comes back we will have a great big bazaar here at lovely Silverbel, and a marquee on the lawn, and we will ask all the most charitable people in London to take stalls; some of the big-wigs, you know.”
“Big-wigs?” said Sibyl, “what are they?”
“People, my dear child, who are high up in the social scale.”
“I don’t understand, mother,” answered Sibyl. “Oh, do look at this rose, did you ever see such a perfect beauty? May I pick it, mother? It is just perfect, isn’t it, not quite full out and yet not a bud. I’d like very much to send it to my ownest father.”
“Silly child! Yes, of course you may pick it, but it will be dead long before it reaches him.”
“It’s heart won’t be dead,” said Sibyl. She did not know why she made the latter remark. She often did say things which she but half understood. She carefully picked the rose and fastened it into the front of her white dress. When she returned to town that evening she put the rose in water and looked at it with affectionate interest.
“What a pretty flower! Where did my darling get it?” said nurse.
“At Silverbel, the beautiful, beautiful place that father is going to buy when he is rich. You can’t think how good mother is growing, nursie; she is getting better and better every day.”