"Well," I asked, "can you see my love?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure you can see it?"
"Why, of course."
"Well, then, put your hand on it."
"I can't see your love, but,—I know you love me, though!"
"Yes, you do know that I love you, but you can't see my love, neither can you see me."
"Yes, I can!"—and his hand literally flew to my cheek.
"Oh, no, that is not papa; that is flesh. You didn't think I was flesh, did you? No, you can't see me because I am love, or spirit." Here I carefully felt of his head, saying, "Now, that is a bone box, but I don't talk to a bone box when I talk to you." Next, feeling of his ear, I remarked, "Isn't that a funny little thing, a piece of gristle!—but I don't talk to gristle when I speak to you." Bringing my hand down over his face, I continued, "Here is some flesh with bones under it, but I don't talk to flesh and bones when I talk to you. No, I can't see you. Yet, my love knows your love, and your love knows my love. When my love feels your love, then we say you are in my heart; and when our love feels God's love, then He is in our hearts. Isn't it beautiful, that my love knows and likes to talk to your love, and your love knows and likes to talk to my love, and that we like to talk to God's love?" He didn't wait for me to ask him to pray, but at once began in a loud whisper, saying:
"O God, help me to be a good boy, and to love papa and mamma, and everybody, and to do everything that is good." Then looking up with a smile, he asked, "Do you know what I was doing?" I said: