"I guess she does know, Bobby Burns, and you will be real mean, and bad if you say so any more. She knows all about heaven, and angels, and everything."
"Does angels come after all folks that dies?"
"I dunno; I guess so; no, I guess not. Only good folks."
"Is Susie good?"
"Sometimes she is," said truthful Sate, in slow, thoughtful tones, a touch of mournfulness in them that might have gone to Susie's heart had she heard and understood; "she gave me the biggest half of a cookie the other night. It was a good deal the biggest; and she takes care of me most always; one day she took off her shoes and put them on me, because the stones and the rough ground hurt my feet. They hurt her feet too; they bleeded, oh! just awful, but she wouldn't let me be hurt."
"Why didn't you wear your own shoes?"
"I didn't have any; mine all went to holes; just great big holes that wouldn't stay on; it was before my papa got good, and he didn't buy me any shoes at all."
"Has your papa got good?"
"Yes," said Sate confidently, "I guess he has. My sister Nettie thinks so; and Susie does too. He don't drink bad stuff any more. It was some kind of stuff he drank that made him cross; mamma said so; and the stuff made him feel so bad that he couldn't buy shoes, nor nothing; why, sometimes, before Nettie came home, we didn't have any bread! He isn't cross to-day, and he wasn't last night; and he bought me some new shoes—real pretty ones, and he kissed me. I love my papa when he is good. Do you love your papa when he is good?"
"My papa is always good," said Bobby, with that air of immense superiority.