“No, I won’t,” said Pollio, his brown face lighting up. “He whispers right under your pocket. I’m going to pray some more now: I’d just as lief pray as not.”
“So’d I,” said Posy. “But I sha’n’t ask him to ‘bless papa and mamma, and everybody,’ ’cause I don’t want him to bless the naughty Indians; do you, Nunky?”
“Ask him to make them good,” replied Nunky, stroking the little golden head, and wondering how much Posy understood of what he had been saying.
“Well, I will. I love God and the angels better’n I do you, Nunky. Of course I ought to love the heaven-folks best.”
“Does God do just what you ask him to when you pray?” said Pollio, who had been for some moments lost in thought.
“Yes, if He thinks it best, he does.”
“Well, then, I sha’n’t say, ‘Accept me through thy Son;’ for the sun is too hot: I’d rather go through the moon.”
Nunky had to turn his head away to laugh. He did not try in the least to explain any thing more to Pollio that evening, and he really thought all his words had been thrown away. But this was a mistake. A new idea had entered the children’s minds,—an idea they would never forget. Nunky found this out a long while afterward, and was very glad he had taken so much pains.
But just now he had talked long enough; so he dropped the children from his knee suddenly, pretending he hadn’t known they were there.