“It appears to me,” said his friend, “that if you reject everything which you cannot wholly conceive or comprehend, you must not only reject the Bible, but adopt the views of the atheist, and deny the existence of a God.” The philosopher admitted the force of this observation, and declared, that, as he had no sensible, or visible, proof of the existence of the Deity, he disbelieved the existence of such a Being. Thus far the watchful ear and quick sense of the child caught and comprehended the conversation, and as her mother had given her a religious education, she was not a little startled and surprised at the opinions which her father had uttered. She said nothing about it, however, at the time, and two or three weeks passed before she gave any indications of having noticed the conversation. She was one day walking with her father, when they chanced to discover a single violet--the first they had seen, for it was the beginning of spring. She stooped down to pick it, but paused a moment, and looking her father in the face, inquired, “What makes this little flower grow, father?” “The heat and moisture and the principle of vegetable life,” was the reply. “But how does it grow?” said she. “Can heat and water and seeds make a flower?” “It is the course of nature, my child,” said the philosopher. “But I want to know,” said she, “what this course of nature is? I want to know how it operates? Is nature alive? Has it power to make flowers? and by what means does it work?” “I cannot tell you, child,” was the answer. “We do not understand these things,--we only know the fact that such things are.” “Well, don’t you believe that the flower grows, father?” said the child. “Certainly,” was the reply. “Why do you ask?” “Because I heard you tell Mr. B., the other day, that you never believed anything you could not understand.” The philosopher here turned the conversation, and they walked on. A few days after this the child was taken sick of a fever. As she lay upon her bed, she could distinctly feel the beatings of her heart, which shook her whole frame. Her father was by the bedside. Though suffering from disease, the mind of the little girl was perfectly clear. “What makes the heart beat?” said she to her father. “It is the principle of life,” said he. “And what is this principle of life?” said the child. “I cannot explain it to you,” said the philosopher; “we do not comprehend it; we only know that there is such a thing, and that by its impulse the heart beats and the blood circulates.” “Put your hand on my breast,” said the child. The father did as requested. “Does not my heart beat, father?” “Yes,” was the reply.