The ragged girl flew across the grass, came to a woman who was seated with some other children round her, stayed away for a very short time, and quickly returned. "Now, ain't I h'all right?" she said, showing a pair of pretty rosy lips enough, in the midst of an otherwise black and dirty little face. "You'll kiss me now, pretty, dear little boy?" she said. "I tiss 'oo once," replied King Roy solemnly, and allowing his little rose-bud mouth to meet hers. "Oh, but ain't he a real duck?" said the girl. "We 'ad a little 'un somethink like him wid us once. Yes, he wor _werry_ like him." "Ain't he with you now?" asked Faith. "No, no; you mustn't speak o' it to mother, but he died; he tuk the 'fecti'n, and he died." "Wor it fever?" asked Faith. "Yes, perhaps that wor the name. There's a many kinds o' 'fecti'n, and folks dies from they h'all. I don't see the use o' naming 'em. They're h'all certain sure to kill yer." Here the ragged girl seated herself on the grass quite close to Faith. "You'll never guess where I'm a going this afternoon," she said. "No; how could I guess?" replied Faith. "Well, now, you're _werry_ neat dressed, and folks like you have a kinder right to be there. But for h'all that, though I'm desperate ragged, I'm goin'. You're sure you can't guess, can you?" "No, I can't guess," answered Faith. "I ain't going nowhere particular myself, and I never wor good at guessing." "Well, now, ain't it queer?--I thought h'all the 'spectable folks went. Why, I'm going to Sunday-school--'tis to Ragged Sunday-school, to be sure; but I like it. I ha' gone twice now, and I like it wonderful well." "I know now what you mean," replied Faith. "I often wished to go to Sunday-school, but father don't like it; he'd rayther I stayed to take care o' Roy." "I guess as my father wouldn't wish it neither. But, Lor' bless yer! I don't trouble to obey him. 'Tis werry nice in Sunday-school. Would you like to hear wot they telled us last Sunday?" "Yes, please," answered Faith, opening her eyes with some curiosity. "Well, it wor a real pretty tale--it wor 'bout a man called Jesus. A lot o' women brought their babies to Jesus and axed Him to fondle of 'em, and take 'em in His arms; and there wor some men about--ugh! I guess as _they_ wor some'ut like father--and they said to the women, `Take the babies away as fast as possible; Jesus is a great, great man, and He can't no way be troubled.' And the mothers o' the babies wor going off, when Jesus said--I remember the exact words, for we was got to larn 'em off book--`Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and don't forbid 'em;' and He tuk them 'ere little babies in His arms and kissed 'em. I guess as some of 'em worn't too clean neither."