“J’anium?” said Molly.

“Yes.  This is called the ’Jewess’—­there are so many kinds that they have to be named.  This is the ‘Jewess’ geranium.”

“Water?”—­said Molly.

“Water?  No, this does not need water, because the roots are in a pot, you know, and have not been disturbed.  It will want water if rain don’t come, by and by.”

“What’s you?” was Molly’s next question, given with more directness.

“Me?  I am Daisy Randolph.  And I love flowers; and you love flowers.  May I come and see you sometimes?  Will you let me?”

Molly’s grunt this time was not unintelligible.  It was queer, but there was certainly a tone of assent in it.  She sat looking now at the “Jewess” blossoms and now at Daisy.

“And I love Jesus,” the child went on.  “Do you love him?”

The grunt was of pure question, in answer to this speech.  Molly did not understand.  Daisy stooped down to face her on more equal terms.

“There is a great King up in heaven, who loves you, Molly.  He loves you so well that he died for you.  And if you love him, he will take you there when you die and give you a white robe and a crown of gold, and make you blessed.”

It is impossible to describe the simple earnestness of this speech.  Daisy said it, not as a philosopher nor as even a preacher would have done; she said it as a child.  As she had received, she gave.  The utter certainty and sweetness of her faith and love went right from one pair of eyes to the other.  Nevertheless, Molly’s answer was only a most ignorant and blank, “What?”—­but it told of interest.

“Yes,” said Daisy.  “Jesus loved us so well that he came and died for us—­he shed his blood that we might be forgiven our sins.  And now he is a Great King up in heaven; and he knows all we do and all we think; and if we love him he will make us good and take us to be with him, and give us white robes and crowns of gold up there.  He can do anything, for he raised up dead people to life, when he was in the world.”

That was a master-stroke of Daisy’s.  Molly’s answer was again a grunt of curiosity; and Daisy, crouching opposite to her, took up her speech and told her at length and in detail the whole story of Lazarus.  And if Daisy was engaged with her subject, so certainly was Molly.  She did not stir hand or foot; she sat listening movelessly to the story, which came with such loving truthfulness from the lips of her childish teacher.  A teacher exactly fitted, however, to the scholar; Molly’s poor closed-up mind could best receive any truth in the way a child’s mind would offer it; but in this truth, the undoubting utterance of Daisy’s love and belief won entrance for her words where another utterance might not.  Faith is always catching.