tell." And Dolly's eyes indeed looked expectant.
"I think I like you best just as you are."
Dolly's face curled all up into a smile at this; brow and eyes and cheeks and lips all spoke her sense of amusement; and stooping forward a little at the same time, she laid a loving kiss upon her aunt's mouth, who was unspeakably delighted with this expression of confidence. But then she repeated gravely —
"I think they want me changed."
"And pray, what are you going to do, with that purpose in view?"
"I don't know. I am going to study, and learn things; a great many things."
"I don't believe you are particularly ignorant for eleven years old."
"Oh, I do not know anything!"
"Can you write a nice hand?"
Dolly's face wrinkled up again with a sense of the comical. She gave an unhesitating affirmative answer.
"And you have read Shakespeare. What else, Dolly?"
"Plutarch."
"'Plutarch's Lives'?" said Mrs. Eberstein, while her husband again laughed out aloud. "Hush, Edward. Is it 'Plutarch's Lives,' my dear, that you mean? Caesar, and Alexander, and Pompey?"
Dolly nodded. "And all the rest of them. I like them very much."
"But what is your favourite book?"
"That!" said Dolly.
"I have got a whole little bookcase upstairs full of the books I used to read when I was a little girl. We will look into it to-morrow, and see what we can find. 'Plutarch's Lives' is not there."
"Oh, I do not want that," said Dolly, her eyes brightening. "I have read it so much, I know it all."
"Come here," said Mr. Eberstein; "your aunt has had you long enough; come here, Dolly, and talk to me. Tell me which of those old fellows you think was the best fellow?"
"Of 'Plutarch's Lives'?" said Dolly, accepting a position upon Mr. Eberstein's knee now.
"Yes; the men that 'Plutarch's Lives' tell about. Whom do you like best?"
Dolly pondered, and then averred that she liked one for one thing and another for another. There ensued a lively discussion between her and Mr. Eberstein, in the course of which Dolly certainly brought to view some power of discrimination and an unbiassed original judgment; at the same time her manner retained the delicate quiet which characterised all that belonged to her. She held her own over against Mr. Eberstein, but she held it with an exquisite poise of ladylike good breeding; and Mr. Eberstein was charmed with her. The talk lasted until it was broken up by Mrs. Eberstein, who declared Dolly must go to rest.
She went up herself with the child, and attended to her little arrangements; helped her undress; and when Dolly was fairly in bed, stood still looking at the bright little head on the pillow, thinking that the brown eyes were very wide open for the circumstances.
"Are you very tired, darling?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Dolly. "I guess not very."
"Sleepy?"
"No, I am not sleepy yet. I am wide awake."
"Do you ever lie awake, after you have gone to bed?"
"Not often. Sometimes."
"What makes you do it?"
"I don't know. I get thinking sometimes."
"About what can such a midget as you get thinking?"
Dolly's face wrinkled up a little in amusement at this question. "I see a great many things to think about," she answered.
"It's too soon for you to begin that," said Mrs. Eberstein, shaking her head. Then she dropped down on her knees by the bedside, so as to bring her face nearer the child's.
"Dolly, have you said your prayers?" she asked softly.
The brown eyes seemed to lift their lids a little wider at that. "What do you mean, Aunt Harry?" she replied.
"Do you never pray to the Lord Jesus before you go to sleep?"
"I don't do it ever. I don't know anything about it."
The thrill that went over Mrs. Eberstein at this happily the little one did not know. She went on very quietly in manner.
"Don't you know what prayer is?"
"It is what people do in church, isn't it?"
"What is it that people do in church?"
"I do not know," said Dolly. "I never thought about it."
"It is what you do whenever you ask your father or mother for anything. Only that is prayer to your father or mother. This I mean is prayer to God."
"We don't call it prayer, asking them anything," said Dolly.
"No, we do not call it so. But it is really the same thing. We call it prayer, when we speak to God."
"Why should I speak to God, Aunt Harry? I don't know how."
"Why He is our Father in heaven, Dolly. Wouldn't it be a strange thing if children never spoke to their father?"
"But they can't, if they don't know him," said Dolly.
Here followed a strange thing, which no doubt had mighty after-effects. Mrs. Eberstein, who was already pretty well excited over the conversation, at these words broke down, burst into tears, and hid her face in the bedclothes. Dolly looked on in wondering awe, and an instant apprehension that the question here was about something real. Presently she put out her hand and touched caressingly Mrs. Eberstein's hair, moved both by pity and curiosity to put an end to the tears and have the talk begin again. Mrs. Eberstein lifted her face, seized the little hand and kissed it.
"You see, darling," she said, "I want you to be God's own child."
"How can I?"
"If you will trust Jesus and obey Him. All who belong to Him are God's dear children; and He loves them, and the Lord Jesus loves them, and He takes care of them and teaches them, and makes them fit to be with Him and serve Him in glory by and by."
"But I don't know about Jesus," said Dolly again.
"Haven't you got a Bible?"
"No."
"Never read it?"
"No."
"Never went to Sunday School?"
"No, ma'am."
"Little Dolly, I am very glad you came to Philadelphia."
"Why, Aunt Harry?"
"Because I love you so much!" exclaimed Mrs. Eberstein, kissing the child's sweet mouth. "Why, Dolly, Jesus is the best, best friend we have got; nobody loves us so much in the whole world; He gave his life for us. And, then, He is the King of glory. He is everything that is loving, and true, and great, and good; 'the chiefest among ten thousand.'"
"What did He give His life for?" said Dolly, whose eyes were growing more and more intent.
"To save our lives, dear."
"From what?"
"Why, Dolly, you and I, and everybody, have broken God's beautiful law. The punishment for that is death; not merely the death of the body, but everlasting separation from God and His love and His favour; that is death; living death. To save us from that, Jesus died Himself; He paid our debt; He died instead of us."
"Then is He dead?" said Dolly awefully.
"He was dead; but He rose again, and now He lives, King over all. He was God as well as man, so the grave could not hold Him. But He paid our debt, darling."
"You said, death was everlasting separation from God and good," said Dolly very solemnly.
"For us, it would have been."
"But He did not die that way?"
"He could not, for He is the glorious Son of God. He only tasted death for us; that we might not drink the bitter cup to eternity."
"Aunt