“Know about what, dear?”
Judith had taken one small, brown hand and drawn him closer to her. He was three years older than her own little son would have been, had he lived, but her heart yearned over him as it did over all children now.
“About ‘God is love’—‘unfailing, quick.’”
Coming so closely upon what Mother Graham had said the child’s words were almost a shock.
“He didn’t know about it until I told him,” Gerald volunteered.
“Who?” Both women put the question together.
“The man that drawed me with a pencil.”
They turned and looked at each other involuntarily. Each had a mental picture of a strong, supple hand and its quick, masterful work when anything appealed to the artistic sense controlling it.
“Do you mean a man who drew a picture of you?” Mother Graham asked.
Gerald nodded.