The air was so full of life and reviving, that it seemed like the
crude substance that God might take to make babies' souls of--only the very
simile smells of materialism, and therefore I do not like it.
"Papa," said Connie at length, and I was beside her in a moment. Her face
looked almost glorified with delight: there was a hush of that awe upon it
which is perhaps one of the deepest kinds of delight. She put out her thin
white hand, took hold of a button of my coat, drew me down towards her, and
said in a whisper:
"Don't you think God is here, papa?"
"Yes, I do, my darling," I answered.
"Doesn't _he_ enjoy this?"
"Yes, my dear. He wouldn't make us enjoy it if he did not enjoy it. It
would be to deceive us to make us glad and blessed, while our Father did
not care about it, or how it came to us. At least it would amount to making
us no longer his children."
"I am so glad you think so. I do. And I shall enjoy it so much more now."
She could hardly finish her sentence, but burst out sobbing so that I was
afraid she would hurt herself. I saw, however, that it was best to leave
her to quiet herself, and motioned to the rest to keep back and let her
recover as she could.
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