"You are tired, my little one," answered Mrs. Rose with infinite tenderness to Elsie's plaintive questioning.
"Yes, so tired, mother; put your hand on my head a little while."
Mrs. Rose obeyed, and her cool hand seemed to soothe the little sufferer.
"Mother," she continued, half wandering, "Hugh says I'm too little to fight."
"Yes, my pet, so you are; mother's little Elsie doesn't want to be a soldier," she answered, thinking the child's mind was reverting to "The Wars of the Roses," which occasionally she had heard discussed amongst her children, though never, be it said, without expressed disapproval.
"Yes, I do," she answered half petulantly, "Rachel says I'm not too little; she told me—" and here the child's eyes, with a clear light in their depths, sought her mother's face anxiously—"I might be a soldier of the Lord Jesus Christ."
"Yes, darling, so you may," answered Mrs. Rose, a rush of tears nearly blinding her sight.
"Then ask Him, mother, to let me be His little soldier," said Elsie eagerly. "Say it out loud, mummie dear," she pleaded, using in her excitement the pet name which came most naturally to her lips when she was particularly desirous of some favour.
Mrs. Rose hesitated.
"Say it now, 'cause I'm going to sleep presen'y."