“Yes. If you love Him He will give you a better time than the Queen has on her throne—a time so good, that you will never want to change with anybody in all the world.”
“Tell me about God,” asked Flo in a breathless voice, and she left her stool and knelt at Mrs Jenks’ feet.
“God,” said little Mrs Jenks, putting down her work and looking up solemnly, “God—He’s the Father of the fatherless, and you are fatherless. God’s your Father, child.”
“Our—Father—chart—’eaven,” repeated Flo.
“Your Father in Heaven—yes, that’s it.”
Then the little woman paused, puzzled how best to make her story plain enough and simple enough for the ignorant child. Words came to her at last, and Flo learned what every child in our England is supposed to know, but what, alas! many such children have never heard of; many such children live and die without hearing of.
Do we blame them for their social standing? do we blame them for filling their country with vice and crime?
Doubtless we do blame them, we raise our own clean skirts and pass over on the other side. In church we thank God that we are not as these men are—murderers—thieves—unclean—unholy. Let them go to prison, and to death—fit ends for such as they.
True! virtue is to them not even a name, they have never heard of it at all.
The fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness has never come in their path. Their iniquities are unpurged, their sins unpardoned.