“Dee Lord, not make me sho bad,” he cried through his tears.  I doubt his having had any very clear idea of what he was saying, or whom he was addressing; but had the publican of whose prayer Toddie made so fair a paraphrase worn such a face when he offered his famous petition, it could not have been denied for a moment.  Toddie even retired to a corner and hid his face in self-imposed penance.

“Never mind, Toddie,” said I, sadly; “you didn’t mean to do it, I know.”

“I wantsh to love you,” sobbed Toddie.

“Well, come here, you poor little fellow,” said I, opening my arms, and wondering whether ’twas not after contemplation of some such sinner that good Bishop Tegner wrote:—­

“Depths of love are atonement’s depths, for love is atonement”

Toddie came to my arms, shed tears freely upon my shirt-front, and finally, after heaving a very long sigh, remarked:—­

“Wantsh you to love me”

I complied with his request.  Theoretically, I had long believed that the higher wisdom of the Creator was most frequently expressed through the medium of his most innocent creations.  Surely here was a confirmation of my theory, for who else had ever practically taught me the duty of the injured one toward his offender?  I kissed Toddie and petted him, and at length succeeded in quieting him; his little face, in spite of much dirt and many tear-stains, was upturned with more of beauty in it than it ever held when its owner was full of joy; he looked earnestly, confidingly, into my eyes, and I congratulated myself upon the perfection of my forgiving spirit, when Toddie suddenly re-exhibited to me my old unregenerate nature, and the incompleteness of my forgiveness, by saying:—­

“Kish my dolly, too.”

I obeyed.  My forgiveness was made complete, but so was my humiliation.  I abruptly closed our interview.  We exchanged “God bless you’s,” according to Budge’s instructions of the previous night, and at least one of the participants in this devotional exercise hoped the petitions made by the other were distinctly heard.  Then I dropped into an easy-chair in the library, and fell to thinking.  I found myself really and seriously troubled by the results of Toddie’s operation with my bouquet.  I might explain the matter to Miss Mayton—­I undoubtedly could, for she was too sensible a woman to be easily offended merely by a ridiculous mistake, caused by a child.  But she would laugh at me—­how could she help it?—­and to be laughed at by Miss Mayton was a something the mere thought of which tormented me in a manner that made me fairly ashamed of myself.  Like every other young man among young men, I had been the butt of many a rough joke, and had borne them without wincing; it seemed cowardly and contemptible that I should be so sensitive under the mere thought of laughter which would probably be heard by no one but Miss Mayton herself.  But the laughter of a mere acquaintance is likely to lessen