"Mother likes me when I am pretty," she repeated softly under her breath, "but father likes me anyhow." She thought over this somewhat curious problem. Why should father like her anyhow? Why should mother only kiss her and pet her when she was downright pretty? "Do I look pretty?" she said at last, dancing back to the governess's side. Miss Winstead dropped her pen and looked up at the radiant little figure. She had contrived to tie some of the wild flowers together, and had encircled them round her white forehead, and mixed them in her flowing locks, and here, there, and everywhere on her white dress were bunches of buttercups and daisies, with a few violets thrown in. "Do I look pretty?" repeated Sibyl Ogilvie. "You are a very vain little girl," said Miss Winstead. "I won't tell you whether you look pretty or not, you ought not to think of your looks. God does not like people who think whether they are pretty or not. He likes humble-minded little girls. Now don't interrupt me any more." "There's the gong, I'm off," cried Sibyl. She kissed her hand to Miss Winstead, her face all alight with happiness. "I know I am pretty, she always talks like that when I am," thought the child, who had a very keen insight into character. "Mother will kiss me to-night, I am so glad. I wonder if Jesus Christ thinks me pretty, too." Sibyl Ogilvie, aged eight, had a theology of her own. It was extremely simple, and had no perplexing elements about it. There were three persons who were absolutely perfect. Jesus Christ Who lived in heaven, but Who saw everything that took place on earth, and her own father and mother. No one else was absolutely without sin, but these three were. It was a most comfortable doctrine, and it sustained her little heart through some perplexing passages in her small life. She used to shut her eyes when her mother frowned, and say softly under her breath-- "It's not wrong, 'cos it's mother. Mother couldn't do nothing wrong, no more than Jesus could"; and she used to stop her ears when her mother's voice, sharp and passionate, rang across the room. Something was trying mother dreadfully, but mother had a right to be angry; she was not sinful, like nurse, when she got into her tantrums. As to father, he was never cross. He did look tired and disturbed sometimes. It must be because he was sorry for the rest of the world. Yes, father and mother were perfection. It was a great support to know this. It was a very great honor to have been born their little girl. Every morning when Sibyl knelt to pray, and every evening when she offered up her nightly petitions, she thanked God most earnestly for having given her as parents those two perfect people known to the world as Philip Ogilvie and his wife.