“He does, of course, everything that’s going to last forever and ever:  everything that’s beautiful and good and strong.  Whatever God thinks about has got to last.”  The child lifted her shoulders.  “I’m glad He doesn’t think about mistakes,—­sickness, and everything like that, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want sickness to last forever, I’m sure” returned Mr. Badger.

The following day was clear and bright, and early in the afternoon Hazel, dressed in a clean gingham frock, took her doll and walked up the street to Miss Fletcher’s.

The wheeled chair was already out under the elm-tree, and Flossie was watching for her guest.  Miss Fletcher was sitting near her, sewing, and waiting with concealed impatience for the appearance of the bright face under the straw tam-o’-shanter.

As soon as Hazel reached the corner of the fence and saw them there, she began to run, her eyes fixed eagerly on the white figure in the wheeled chair.  The blue eyes that looked so tired regarded her curiously as she ran up the garden path and across the grass to the large, shady tree.

Hazel had never been close to a sick person, and something in Flossie’s appearance and the whiteness of her thin hands that clasped the doll in the gay pink dress brought a lump into the well child’s throat and made her heart beat.

“Dear Father, I want to help her!” she said under her breath, and Miss Fletcher noticed that she had no eyes for her, and saw the wondering pity in her face as she came straight up to the invalid’s chair.

“Flossie Wallace, this is Hazel Wright,” she said, and Flossie smiled a little under the love that leaped from Hazel’s eyes into hers.

“I’m glad you brought your doll,” said Flossie.

“Ella goes everywhere I do,” returned Hazel.  “What’s your doll’s name?”

“Bernice; I think Bernice is a beautiful name,” said Flossie.

“So do I,” returned Hazel.  Then the two children were silent a minute, looking at one another, uncertain how to go on.

Hazel was the first to speak.  “Isn’t it lovely to live with this garden?” she asked.

“Yes, aunt Hazel has nice flowers.”

“I have an aunt Hazel, too,” said the little visitor.

“Miss Fletcher isn’t my real aunt, but I call her that,” remarked Flossie.

“And you might do it, too,” suggested Miss Fletcher, looking at Hazel, to whom her heart warmed more and more in spite of the astonishing charges of the day before.

“Do you think I could call you aunt Hazel?” asked the child, rather shyly.

“For the sake of being cousin to my garden, you might.  Don’t you think so?”

“How is the quest flower to-day?” asked Hazel.

“Which?  Oh, you mean the garden lily.  There’s another bud.”

“Oh, may I look at it?” cried Hazel, “and wouldn’t you like to come too?” turning to Flossie.  “Can’t I roll your chair?”