“Oh, Pompey, I wish I could die!”

“’Specs little Miss hez no call ter wish dat,” said Pompey gently.  “’Specs de Lord Jesus wants her to live fer him.”

Evadne opened her eyes in wonder.

“‘The Lord Jesus,’” she repeated.  “Why, Pompey, do you know him?”

A great joy transfigured the black face.

“He is my Frien’,” he said simply.

Evadne leaned forward eagerly.  “Oh, Pompey, if that is true, then you can help me find him.”

Pompey smiled joyously.  “Miss ’Vadney don’t need ter go far away fer dat.  He is right here.”

“Here!” echoed Evadne faintly.

“Lo, I am wid you all de days’” Pompey repeated softly.  “De Lord Jesus don’t leave no gaps in his promises, Miss ’Vadney.  He’s allers wid me wherever I is workin’, an’ when I is up on my box a drivin’ troo de streets, he’s dere.  He’s wid me continuous.  Dere’s nuthin can seprate Pompey from de Lord,” he added with a sweet reverence.

“How can you be so sure?” she asked wistfully.

“I hez his word, Missy.  You allers b’lieved your father?  ’I will not leave you orphuns, I will cum ter you.’  I ’specs dat verse is meant speshully fer you, Miss ’Vadney.”

“But we can’t see him,” said Evadne.

“Only wid de eye of faith, Missy.  We trusts our friens in de dark.  You didn’t need ter see your father ter know he wuz in de house?”

“Oh, no!” Evadne’s voice trembled.

“It’s jes’ de same wid my Father, Miss ’Vadney.”

“How can you call God so, Pompey?”

A great sweetness came over the homely face.

“‘Cause he hez sent his Sperit inter my heart, an’ poor black Pompey can look up inter de shinin of his face an’ say ‘my Father,’ ’cause I’se hidden away in his Son.  I’se a little branch abidin’ in de great Vine.  I’se one wid de Lord Jesus.”

“I don’t know where to look for him!” Evadne cried disconsolately.

Pompey laid aside his curry-comb and brush and folded his toil-worn hands.

“Lord Jesus,” he said quietly, “here is thy little lamb.  She’s out in de dark mountain, an’ she’s lonesum an’ hungry, an’ de col’ rain of sorrow is beatin’ on her head.  Lord, thou is de good Shepherd.  Let her hear thy voice a callin’ her.  Carry this little lamb in thy bosom an’ giv her de joy of thy love.”

* * * * *

Judge Hildreth sat in his library far into the night.  He was reading for the twentieth time the letter which Evadne had placed in his hands the morning after her arrival, and as he read, he frowned.

“It is ridiculous, absurd!” he exclaimed impatiently.  “Just of a piece with all of Len’s quixotic theories.  By what possible chance could a child of that age know how to manage money?  She would make ducks and drakes of the whole business in less than a year!”

A letter addressed to Evadne lay upon the pile of age-worn papers in an open drawer at his side.