“Are you trusting in your Saviour’s love?”
I accuse myself for speaking, in this bold way, of the unhappy question; but yet, why not? for ’twas asked in purest anxiety, in the way of Parson Lute, whom all children loved.
“Are you clinging,” says he, “to the Cross?”
Elizabeth listlessly stared at the rafters.
“Have you laid hold on the only Hope of escape?”
The child Judith––whose grief was my same agony––sobbed heart-brokenly.
“Judith!” Elizabeth called, her apathy vanished. “Poor little Judith!”
“No, my daughter,” the parson gently protested. “This is not the time,” said he. “Turn your heart away from these earthly affections,” he pleaded, his 160 voice fallen to an earnest whisper. “Oh, daughter, fix your eyes upon the Cross!”
Elizabeth was sullen. “I wants Judith,” she complained.
“You have no time, now, my daughter, to think of these perishing human ties.”