“There, there, dear, don’t cry.”
“I oughtn’t to stayed up-stairs yesterday in the cold,” went on Flaxie, determined to free her mind. “That was the wickedest thing! But you were just as good as you could be, if you did trim the church; and I’ll never do so again!”
“Oh, hush, dear; you shake the bed.”
“I’m real bad in here, in my s-o-ul!” wailed Flaxie, squeezing her eyelids together tight, and laying her hand on her stomach. “Why don’t God make me beautiful inside o’ my soul?”
“Ask Him, dear child!”
“Will He?” said Flaxie, earnestly. “Oh, yes, I know;” and her eager face fell. “But He’ll have to make me homely to do it, just like Miss Pike.”
“Oh, no, my darling.”
“Won’t He? See what a orful cole-sore I’ve got on my mouth. If it would stay there, and stick on always, do you s’pose I’d grow good?” asked Flaxie, thoughtfully.
Aunt Charlotte almost smiled.
“’Cause I’m willing to be a little homely,—now truly—if I can have a nice so-o-ul,” added the child, with a true and deep feeling of her own naughtiness that I am sure the angels must have been glad to see.