"They have not forgotten," said Annie, ignoring the compliment--"they have only been diverted from their trouble. Children can do by nature what we should from intelligent choice--turn away the mind from painful subjects to those that are pleasing. You don't catch me brooding over trouble when there are a thousand pleasant things to think of." "That is easier said than done, Miss Walton. I read on your smooth brow that you have had few serious troubles, and, as you say, '_you_ have a thousand pleasant things to think of.' But with others it may be very different. Some troubles have a terrible magnetism that draws the mind back to them as if by a malign spell, and there are no 'pleasant things to think of.'" "No 'pleasant things'? Why, Mr. Gregory! The universe is very wide." "Present company excepted," replied he gallantly. "But what do I care for the universe? As you say, it is 'very wide'--a big, uncomfortable place, in which one is afraid of getting lost." "I am not," said Annie, gently. "How so?" "It's all my Father's house. I am never for a moment lost sight of. Wherever I am, I am like a little child playing outside the door while its mother, unseen, is watching it from the window." He looked at her keenly to see if she were perfectly sincere. Her face had the expression of a child, and the thought flashed across him, "If she is so watched and guarded, how vain are my attempts!" But he only said with a shrug, "It would be a pity to dissipate your happy superstition, Miss Walton, but after what I have seen and experienced in the world it would seem more generally true that the mother forgot her charge, left the window, and the child was run over by the butcher's cart." "Do you think it vain confidence," said Annie, earnestly, "when I say that you could not dissipate what you term my 'superstition,' any more than you could argue me out of my belief in my good old father's love?" CHAPTER XIII INTERPRETING CHESTNUT BURRS The conversation had taken a turn that Gregory wished to avoid, so he said: "Miss Walton, you regard me as wretched authority on theology, and therefore my opinions will go for nothing. Suppose we join the children on the hill, for I am most anxious to commence the search for the clew to your favor. Give me your hand, that as your attendant I may at least appear to assist you in climbing, though I suppose you justly think you could help me more than I can you." "And if I can, why should I not?" asked Annie, kindly. "Indeed, Miss Walton, I would crawl up first. But thanks to your reviving influences, I am not so far gone as that." "Then you would not permit a woman to reach out a helping hand to you? Talk not against Turks and Arabs. How do Christian men regard us?" "But you look upon me as a 'heathen.'" "Beg your pardon, I do not." "Miss Walton, give your honest opinion of me--just what you think." "Will you do the same of me?" "Oh, certainly!" "No, do not answer in that tone. On your honor."