“Zia Gina!” she exclaimed (she had heard her mother call me Gina, as well as sister, and composed therefrom the name she always gave me). “Zia Gina, what makes you cry?”
“I am sad, Lina,” said I, my tears falling on her beautiful fair curls.
“Why?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Can you tell the good God?”
What a singular question!... She made me blush, and, after a moment's reflection, I replied somewhat evasively:
“One can tell him everything, Lina, for he is our Father.”
“Yes, I know he is our Father; I call him so every day.”
Her attention was diverted an instant by a butterfly she saw floating [pg 638] by. She watched it till it flew away, and then resumed:
“Then, my dear Zia Gina, you must pray God to console you.”