"That I cannot tell you," I answered. "But, Betty, don't think all the time of the hardness of the road. Think of what is at the end thereof, and how you may help those who are going the same way; and perhaps turn some back who are travelling in the opposite direction. If you live and grow up, you will have a great many chances of doing good, both to men's souls and their bodies. There are your little god-daughters down at the Cove, and the children in the school, and as you grow older, more people still." She seemed a little comforted, and to divert her still farther, I told her of Goody Yeo's granddaughter, who needed a petticoat, which she might make for her. At last, she ceased crying, and allowed me to loosen her dress and lay her down to rest. I thought she was asleep, when she roused herself and asked me: "Margaret, what sort of a man was your father?" I told her he was a good man, and much beloved by all who knew him. "If you had had a little dog, he would not have killed it," said she. "If you had been crooked and sickly, he would not have wished you were dead!" "My love," said I, "you think too hardly of your father. He did not mean to kill the dog." "He did not mean to break my heart, either," said this strange child; "and yet he has done both, and they can't be cured because he did not mean to do it. It was not the saying so—it was the thinking so." "I don't think he meant it, either," I answered. "People often say a great deal more than they mean. The other day, when Mary broke your china image by accident, you told her that she was an awkward clod, and you wished she was a thousand miles off. Yet I am sure you would be very sorry to have her go even ten miles away, would you not?" She was silent at this, and seemed to be turning the matter over in her mind. When Mary came in, shortly after, Betty roused up and called her. "Mary," said she, "I am very sorry that I was so cross with you about breaking the china image. I said I wished you a thousand miles away, and it was not true. I would not have you go away for anything, and I will never say such wicked things again." "Bless your dear, tender heart!" said Mary, kissing the hand Betty held out to her. "I thought nothing of it, my lambkin. I knew you were only angry, and we all say more than we mean at such times." "I will try never to be angry again," said Betty. "Margaret, will you ask Thomas to bury my poor dog near to our seat in the wood, and to mark the place? I should like to have Thomas do it, because he was always fond of poor Gill." I promised that it should be done as she desired, and leaving her with Mary, with a charge not to talk, but to lie still and try to sleep, I carried the poor little beast down to the stable, and asked Thomas to bury him. As he was smoothing the turf over the little grave, my Lord came along. "Hullo, what are you doing here?" he asked.