I wish I could give you an idea of the strength in the girl's voice. It almost carried conviction with it to Mrs. Roberts' heart.
“Come and sit down,” she said, and she drew her towards one of the low cushions. If Mart sat on that, her head would be just where a gentle hand could stroke the masses of hair.
“Let me talk with you about this. You are mistaken in one thing. Dirk is very bad. He is bad enough to shut him out of heaven forever.”
The girl started, and tried to fling off the caressing hand.
“So are you,” said the gentle voice.
“Oh, me! Don't talk about me! Whoever said I wasn't bad? Let me go; I want to go home. I don't care how hard it rains.”
“And so am I,” continued the gentle voice.
The girl on the cushion ceased struggling to free herself from the caressing touch, and remained motionless.
“Let me tell you of something that we have each done a great many times. We have been asked and urged and coaxed day after day, and year after year, to accept an invitation to go to this very heaven, and we have paid no attention at all; and this, after Jesus Christ had given His life to make a way for us to go. Is not that being bad?”
“Dirk he never had no invitation—never heard anything about it.”