"Oh! And that soils your hands with the kind of soil that water will not wash away. Look at the picture; that little hand is clasped in a strong one; the picture is to make you think of Jesus' hand; He holds it out for you to put yours in it, so He can keep it safe from getting soiled."
"How?" said the child, looking puzzled. "Where is He? Why doesn't He hold His hand out to me?"
"He does, darling; you cannot see it, nor feel it, because He has not given you the kind of eyes yet with which to see Him; but if you give your hand to Him, and then ask Him every day to keep it from doing wrong things, and make it clean, He will; and by and by He will take you up to Heaven, where mamma is, and where you can see Him, and feel the touch of His hand."
Such sweet, serious eyes as that child had! She looked down at her small unmothered hand, in such a grave, considering way, as seemed almost too much for Elsie to bear; and at last she said, "I will do it; I mean to go to mamma." And the shadow of a smile was on her face—a serious little face, old beyond its years. Elsie did not wonder that the father wiped great tears away; but he grasped her hand heartily and said, "God bless you, ma'am, for showing the little girl how to smile. She hasn't smiled since—" and the sentence was left unfinished.
There was no time for further words. The car bell was ringing, and the dinner gong of the eating house was clattering, and the car was in a bustle of preparation to depart. Elsie gathered her wraps and packages, secured the little book which had told her strange truths, made tender by the practical commentary on them drawn from her new acquaintances, then shook hands with the little girl, bending to kiss her and whisper, "Remember."
"I will," the child said.
"And I will," murmured Elsie. "I must surely take the counsel which I have given her; else how could I bear to meet the child when we both see Him face to face?"
"Hurrah! here you are. I was afraid you did not come, after all. I left Carrie consumed with anxiety lest you had missed the train, or something."
It was Cousin Ben, face and voice full, of eager welcome. He seized upon Elsie's belongings as he spoke, managing shawl-strap and bag and bundles with the air of one long used to business; called for checks, and gave rapid, business-like orders to a porter in waiting, talking to Elsie incessantly all the time—at least, so it seemed to her.
"Now, shall we take a carriage or a sleigh? We have both at your service, you see; and the wheeling is so abominable that there is but one thing worse, which is the sleighing. The fact is, we have neither wheeling nor sleighing just now. Whichever way you take, you will be sure to wish you had chosen the other."