And filled with love and purity.
God wants the girls.”
“I think that is just lovely, mamma. Only it doesn’t seem somehow as if He could, you know! Not the worst of girls!” Then interrupting herself,—“Mamma, are there any heathen in America?”
“Yes, my daughter, I fear there are. But why do you ask? You can never have seen any?”
“Yes, mamma, I have seen them. They live at Old Bluff. Their name is Pancake. They don’t belong anywhere, and they haven’t been there long. Preston says Queen Victoria ought to take care of them, but I suppose she hasn’t heard of them yet, and they are growing up heathen. Why, mamma, they can’t read, and don’t go to church; they fish Sundays, and dig worms and shoot ducks.”
And Mary went on with a graphic story of Pecy, one of “the worst of girls,” and the bother they had had with her at Camp Comfort. When it came to the adventure in the hailstorm, Mrs. Gray looked pained.
“I knew you wouldn’t like it, mamma, when they clapped her out. She got sick, too, and we all went to see her, and carried lemons and sugar, and she was well in a day or two. But, oh, such a house, and such a mother! Preston says she thinks the earth stands still, and the sun moves round it! Her husband knows more; but what I was going to ask you is,—Well, you remember those Chinese babies——”
Mary found it difficult to proceed.
“Yes, dear, I remember.”
“You said I wanted to please Mrs. Lee, and make her and the girls think I was generous. That was true; I know I did, and it has made me ashamed ever since,” said Mary, a pink blush creeping over her forehead.