“There are none on the Hill-Top of the kind I want her to know now. I’m trying to improve her English, and for a little while I want her to hear only the best. When school opens, that will help. I’ll tell you,—I might send her in town to Sunday School. She’ll hear correct English there, and see children who have nice manners.”
So Betsy started to Sunday School. She wore her prettiest clothes and walked stiffly, as if trying to do her duty by the dainty garments. She was introduced to a teacher, and for a few Sundays Aunt Kate asked no questions, waiting for developments. Betsy went dutifully, but made no sign.
At last Aunt Kate said,
“Do you like your Sunday School, Betsy?”
“Good enough. The folks there think that God punishes you for your sins. I know better. I’ve been awful bad sometimes and He hasn’t punished me a mite.”
“I think we are punished when we break God’s laws. Sometimes we are punished by seeing the ones we love suffer.”
Betsy thought a moment.
“Maybe so,” she said at last. “When I’ve been bad, Ma was sorry, and that made me sorry.”
“I think, little Betsy,” said Aunt Kate, slowly, “that when we are born we have in us the seeds of either good or bad, and it is the seeds we care for and train as we grow up, that make us good or evil. How are you getting on with the girls in the class?”
“Oh, all right, I guess. I don’t get acquainted much. They’re sort of—different, or else—I’m queer. But I’m watchin’ ’em, Aunt Kate, like I do you at the table, and I don’t feel so different as I did at first.”