“No, no!” said Mrs Willis quickly; “I like little boys—when—when they’re good,” she added, after a pause.
“Say I’m one o’ the good sort, sir,” suggested Slidder, in a hoarse whisper. “Of course, it ain’t true, but wot o’ that, if it relieves her mind?”
Taking no notice of this remark, I again sat down beside my old woman.
“What were you going to say about being puzzled, granny?”
“Puzzled, doctor! did I say I was puzzled?”
“Yes, but pray don’t call me doctor. I’m not quite fledged yet, you know. Call me Mellon, or John. Well, you were saying—”
“Oh, I remember. I was only going to say that I’ve been puzzled a good deal of late by that text in which David says, ‘I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’ Now, my father and mother were both good Christians, and, although I cannot claim to be a good one myself, I do claim to be a poor follower of Jesus. Yet here am I—”
She paused.
“Well, granny,” said I, “are you forsaken?”
“Nay, John, God forbid that I should say so; but am I not a beggar? Ah pride, pride, you are hard to kill!”