The quaint child seemed to delight in pondering over these hymns, many of which were past her comprehending; and the long s, so like an f, led her to make many curious blunders when trying to repeat the words,—a thing she was always proud to be asked to do.
Once she had insisted upon being told why it was that saints must have "fits;" and it appeared that she had misread the long s in the sentence, "The Saints that fit above."
Her greatest favorite, and the one she often read, was:—
"My Heart, like Grafs that's fmit with heat
Withers, that I forget to eat;
By reafon of my conftant Groans
I am reduced to fkin and Bones.
I'm like the Pelican, and Owl,
That lonely in the Deferts ftroll;
As mournful fparrows percht alone
On the Houfe Top, I walk and moan."
"Tell me, cousin,—what sort o' bottles does God have?" she now asked, as Dorothy glanced at the book held against her knee.
"'Bitha!" Mary exclaimed reprovingly, while Dorothy stared at the child, and began to laugh.
'Bitha could never endure to be laughed at; and being very fond of Mary Broughton, she did not relish her disapproval. And so at this double attack upon her sensibilities, she looked hurt and a bit angry.
"If," she demanded, "'t is wicked to say that God has bottles, what does the Church Book say so for?" And she pointed to the open page.
"Whatever does the child mean?" asked Dorothy of Mary, as she took the book into her own hands.
"There,—right there!" was 'Bitha's triumphant retort. "Read for yourself!" And she trailed a small finger along the lines,—