Harold was silent for about half a minute. He was sitting down on the grass close to Charlotte, and his head was leaning against her shoulder. After a moment he continued with a sigh,—
"I guess he's very sorry. He and I used to talk about you so at night when I had the fever. I knew then he was fond of you, nearly as fond as I am myself."
"I am glad little Harold Home loves me," said Charlotte, soothed by the pretty boy's talk, and again she stooped down to kiss him.
"But everybody does," said the boy. "There's father and mother, and my Mr. Hinton and me, myself, and above all, the blessed Jesus."
A strange feeling, half pleasure, half surprise, came over Charlotte.
"How do you know about that last?" she whispered.
"Of course I know," replied Harold. "I know quite well. I heard father and mother say it; I heard them say it quite plainly one day; 'She's one of those blessed ones whom Jesus Christ loves very much.' Oh dear! I wish the children weren't back so dreadfully soon."
Yes, the children and Anne had returned, and Harold had to say good-bye, and Charlotte herself had to retrace her steps homewards. But her walk had not been for nothing, and there was a new peace, a new quiet, and a new hope in her heart. The fact was, she just simply, without doubt or difficulty, believed the child. Little Harold Home had brought her some news. The news was strange, new, and wonderful; she did not doubt it. Faithful, and therefore full of faith, was this simple and upright nature. There was no difficulty in her believing a fact. What Harold said was a fact. She was one of those whom Jesus loved. Straight did this troubled soul fly to the God of consolation. Her religion, from being a dead thing, began to live. She was not friendless, she was not alone, she had a friend who, knowing absolutely all, still loved. At that moment Charlotte Harman put her hand into the hand of Christ.