“I wonder what use squirrels are?” said Daisy.

“I guess they are not of any use,” said Nora.

“O, I guess everything is of use.”

“Why no it isn’t,” said Nora.  “Grass is not of any use.”

“O Nora!  Think—­what would the cows and horses do?”

“Well, then, stones are not of any use.”

“Yes they are—­to build houses—­don’t you know?”

“Houses might be built of wood,” said Nora.

“So they might.  But then, Nora, wooden houses would not last so long as stone ones.”

“Well—­people could build new ones.”

“But houses might be wanted where there was not wood enough to build them.”

“I never saw such a place,” said Nora.  “I never saw a place where there was not wood enough.  And if there is such a place anywhere, people could not live in it, because they would have nothing to make fires with.”

Daisy considered.

“But Nora, I think it cannot be so.  I guess everything is made for some use.  Dr. Sandford told me yesterday what the use is of those queer brown leaves that grow upon rocks—­you know—­and the use of little mosses, that I never thought before were good for anything.  They are to begin to prepare a place on the rocks where things can grow.”

“Why, they grow themselves,” said Nora.

“Yes, but I mean other things—­ferns and flowers and other things.”

“Well, what is the use of them?” said Nora.

“O Nora—­just think how pretty they are.”

“But prettiness isn’t use.”

“I think it is,” said Daisy; “and I dare say they have other uses that we do not know.  And I think, Nora, that God would not have taken such care to dress up the old rocks if the rocks were no good.”

“Did He do it?” said Nora.

“Why, certainly.  He did everything, you know.”

“Of course; but I thought they just grew,” said Nora.

The children were silent a little, watching the squirrels.  Daisy began again abruptly.

“Nora, did you ever see that crippled woman that lives on the mill road a little way from our church?”

“Old Molly Skelton, do you mean?”

“I do not know what her name is—­she cannot walk; she creeps about as if she had no legs.”

“I’ve seen her.  Isn’t she horrid?”

“Did you ever see her near by?”

“No, I guess I haven’t.  I have heard Duke tell about her.”

“What? do tell me.”

“O she’s a horrid old thing—­that is all I know.”

“How, horrid?”

“Why, she is wicked, and she don’t know anything.  She would hardly listen to Marmaduke when, he wanted to talk to her.”

“Has she got a Bible, I wonder?” said Daisy in an awestruck voice.

“She?  She can’t read.  She don’t know anything; and she is as ugly and cross as she can be.”

“Was she cross to Mr. Dinwiddie?”

“Yes, indeed.  He said he never saw such a crabbed old thing.  O she’s horrid.  I don’t like to ride by that way.”