“I want to ask you, Aunt Susan, how do boys learn to read?” Susan laughed. “Same way girls do, I s’pose,” she said. “I learned out of a spellin’-book. But you must learn your letters first.” “What’s letters?” asked the child. Susan lifted the large Bible that lay on the table beside her,—a treasure inherited from their mother, to which the sisters had clung all through their days of destitution. It opened of itself at the eleventh chapter of Isaiah. “That’s a letter,” said Susan, pointing to the large capital that headed the chapter; “that’s A, and A stands for Anna.” “Does it, really?” cried Louis, while George grinned delightedly, and pressed nearer to see for himself. “There’s another A,” he went on, glancing down the page, “and another, and—oh, lots of ‘em! What stands for George?” It took some little while to find a G, and L, for Louis was even more difficult; but by dinner-time the child had learned the initials of most of his acquaintances, and Susan’s eyes were bright with pleasurable excitement. “Why do you want to read so bad, all of a sudden, Louis?” she asked, during the course of the lesson. “’Cause Freddy’s papa is sick, and his mamma ain’t got time to read ’bout the Christ-child to him,” said Louis. “And if I learned, then _I_ could, you know, Aunt Susan.” “I guess Freddy’s papa will be either well or dead before you learn to read,” said Susan thoughtfully; “but you can try, anyway. When was you there?” “Yesterday. I’m goin’ again after dinner. Mrs. Richards says I ’muse Freddy and Miss Pinkie; and I ’muse you, too, don’t I, Aunt Susan?” “You’re a real little Christ-child yourself,” said Susan fondly. Louis’ little face beamed with quick pleasure. “I didn’t know I could be a Christ-child ’cept at Christmas,” he said. “You can be a Christ-child any time, all the year round,” replied Susan earnestly; “whenever you make any one good or happy, Louis, that is being like Him.” “Did He make everybody happy?” asked the child rather doubtfully, perhaps remembering the gaunt forms in his Christmas picture, for he added, “Some of their bones stick out awful.” “Well, He ain’t never promised to make ‘em _fat_,” returned Susan dryly; “but as for happy—! Louis, I’ve been through a lot, and I know what I’m talkin’ about. Them that come to Him, He don’t never cast out, you remember that. He ain’t never forsook me yet, and He ain’t a-goin’ to. Ef I begin to doubt Him and fret about not bein’ of no use no more, then He sends an angel to visit with me; that’s what He does, Louis!” “Does He really?” said George, who had listened open-mouthed to all this conversation. “Well,” said Susan, laughing, though with the tears in her eyes, “p’raps I’d oughter said _two_ angels; but, to tell you the truth, George, I forgot you slick and clean.”