“You look as if you wanted to say something,” she said at last.

“I don’t want to be impolite,” returned Hazel, hesitating.

“Well,” returned Miss Fletcher dryly, “if you knew the amount of impoliteness that has been given to me in my time, you wouldn’t hesitate about adding a little more.  Speak out and tell me what you are thinking.”

“I was thinking how wonderful and how nice it is that flowers will grow for everybody,” said Hazel, half reluctantly.

“How’s that?” demanded her new friend, in fresh surprise.  “Have you decided I don’t deserve them?”

“Oh, you deserve them, of course,” replied the child quickly; “but when you have such thoughts about God, it’s a wonder His flowers can grow so beautifully in your yard.”

Miss Fletcher felt a warmth come into her cheeks.

“Well,” she returned rather sharply, “I should like to know what sort of teaching you’ve had.  You’re a big enough girl to know that it’s a Christian’s business to be resigned to the will of God.  You don’t happen to have seen many, sick folks, I guess—­what is your name?”

“Hazel.”

“Why, that’s queer, so is mine; and it isn’t a common one.”

“Isn’t that nice!” returned the child.  “We’re both named Hazel and we both love flowers so much.”

“Yes; that’s quite a coincidence.  Now, why shouldn’t flowers grow for me, I should like to know?”

“Why, you think God afflicted that little girl’s back, and didn’t let her walk.  Why, Miss Fletcher,” the child’s voice grew more earnest, “He wouldn’t do it any more than I’d kneel down and break the stem of that lovely quest flower and let it hang there and wither.”

Miss Fletcher pushed up her spectacles and gazed down into the clear gray eyes.

“Does Flossie think He would?” added Hazel with soft amazement.

“I suppose she does.”

“Then does she say her prayers just the same?”

“Of course she does.”

“What a kind girl she must be!” exclaimed Hazel earnestly.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I wouldn’t pray to anybody that I believed kept me afflicted.”

Miss Fletcher started back.  “Why, child!” she exclaimed, “I should think you’d expect a thunderbolt.  Where do your folks go to church, for pity’s sake?”

“To the Christian Science church.”

“Oh—­h, that’s what’s the matter with you!  Some of Flossie’s relatives have heard about that, and they’ve been teasing her mother to try it.  I’m sure I’d try anything that wasn’t blasphemous.”

“What is blasphemous?”

“Why—­why—­anything that isn’t respectful to God is blasphemous.”

“Oh!” returned Hazel.  Then she added softly, “I should think you were that, now.”

“What!” and Miss Fletcher seemed to tower above her visitor in her amazement.

“Oh—­please excuse me.  I didn’t mean to be impolite; but if you’ll just try, you’ll find out what a mistake you and Flossie have been making, and that God wants to heal her.”