"Walter," inquired Mr. Dermott, "is there no duty we owe these poor heathen?"
"Yes, sir; we ought to send Bibles and missionaries to teach them about our God; and then they would throw away their idols, as the Sandwich Islanders did."
"Yes, my child; and we ought to pray for them, that their hearts may be enlightened to see the folly of their worship."
"I pray for the heathen every night," faltered Isabelle, with tearful eyes, "and I mean to save all my pennies to send them Bibles."
"A missionary," said Mr. Dermott, "once gave an account of a poor man who came into his house. 'When he had sat down, he took up a book of missions which lay upon the table, in which were plates of heathen idols, hideous and ugly in their appearance.'
"'What game is this?' he asked my daughter.
"'They are not game,' replied the little girl; 'there are nations who worship those things.'
"'O,' said he, 'how you tell fibs!'
"'No, I am not telling fibs. My mamma said so, and she does not tell fibs.'
"'Well,' he said again, 'tell me what games they are.'