“Why, yes—of course,” said the elder sister, hesitating, scarcely knowing whither her words were leading her; “why, certainly,” she added with belated conviction and a sense that, if it were so, she had placed herself in a very foolish position; for she had never lived as if she had believed it, and the little sister must know that. “Well, then,” with the quick conclusion of childhood, “why do we worry? why don’t we do it?” “We—could,” said her sister thoughtfully; “I don’t know why we never did. I guess we never thought about it. Shall we try it?” “It won’t do to _try_ it,” said the matter-of-fact little girl, “because he said we had to believe it, you know; and trying is holding on with one hand and watching to see. We’ve got to walk out with both feet and trust. I’m going to!” “Well, so will I,” said Cornelia slowly, her voice low and almost embarrassed. It seemed a strange topic to be talking about so familiarly with a little girl, her little stranger-sister; but she could not let the child get ahead of her. She could not dash the bright spirit of faith. “That’s nice,” said Louise with satisfaction. “I’ll tell Harry too. I guess he will; boys are so funny. I wish he’d been in church. But say, Nellie, we can be happy now, can’t we? We don’t need to worry about Carey any more; we can just pray about it and it will all come right.” Cornelia smiled, and squeezed the little hand nestling in hers. “I guess that’s what we’re expected to do,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, and I think God’ll show you what to do about that—that—chicken girl, too, don’t you, if you ask Him?” “I guess He will.” The whole family, of course excepting Carey, who telephoned that he wouldn’t be home till late, went to church that night, and lingered to be introduced to some of the church people by the cordial minister who had come down to the door to detain them. They finally went home cheered in heart both by the earnest spiritual service and by the warm Christian fellowship that had been offered them. That night as Louise nestled into her pillow, she whispered: “Nellie, have you been shown yet? I mean anything about Carey and that girl.” Cornelia drew the little girl into her arms, and laid her lips against the warm, soft cheek. “I’m not quite sure, dear,” she answered. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps it will seem queer to you, but I’ve almost come to think perhaps we ought to get to know her.” “Oh-h-h!” doubtfully. “Do you really think so? But she’s—why, she’s just _awful_, sister!” “I know, dear, and I’m not sure yet. But you see we can’t do a thing till we really get acquainted with her. She may be simply silly, and not know any better. She may not have any mother, or something; and perhaps we could help her, and then, if we get acquainted with her, we would perhaps be able to make Carey see somehow. Or else we might help her to be—different.” “Oh-h! But how could we get acquainted with her?”