“No—­no—­foolish child; what gives you such ideas?”

There was another pause.  Mrs. Weston fanned Alice, who, with closed eyes, laid languidly on the lounge.

“Miss Janet,” said Lydia, speaking very softly, “who made de lightning-bugs?”

“God made them,” said Miss Janet.

“Did God make de nanny-goats, too?”

“You know that God made every thing,” said Miss Janet.  “I have often told you so.”

“He didn’t make mammy’s house, ma’am; I seed de men makin it.”

“No; man makes houses, but God made all the beautiful things in nature.  He made man, and trees, and rivers, and such things as man could not make.”

Lydia looked up at the sky.  The sun had set, and the moon was coming forth, a few stars glistened there.  Long, fleecy clouds extended over the arch of heaven, and some passing ones for a moment obscured the brightness that gilded the beautiful scene.

“Miss Janet,” said Lydia, “its mighty pretty there; but ’spose it was to fall.”

“What was to fall?”

“De sky, ma’am.”

“It cannot fall.  God holds it in its place.”

Another interval and Lydia said:  “Miss Janet, ’spose God was to die, den de sky would broke down.”

“What put such a dreadful thought into your head, child?” said Miss Janet.  “God cannot die.”

“Yes, ma’am, he kin,” said Lydia.

“No, he cannot.  Have I not often told you that God is a spirit?  He created all things, but he never was made; he cannot die.”

Lydia said inquiringly, “Wasn’t Jesus Christ God, ma’am?”

“Yes, he was the Son of God, and he was God.”

“Well, ma’am, he died onct, dat time de Jews crucified him—­dat time de ground shook, and de dead people got up—­dat time he was nailed to de cross.  So, ma’am, if God died onct, couldn’t he die agin?”

Miss Janet, arousing herself from her reverie, looked at the child.  There she stood, her eyes fixed upon the sky, her soul engaged in solving this mysterious question.  Her little hands hung listlessly by her side; there was no beauty in her face; the black skin, the projecting lips, the heavy features, designated her as belonging to a degraded race.  Yet the soul was looking forth from its despised tenement, and eagerly essaying to grasp things beyond its reach.

“Could he die agin, Miss Janet?” asked Lydia.

Poor child! thought Miss Janet, how the soul pinioned and borne down, longs to burst its chains, and to soar through the glorious realms of light and knowledge.  I thought but now that there was no more for me to do here; that tired of the rugged ascent, I stood as it were on the tops of those mountains, gazing in spirit on the celestial city, and still not called to enter in.  Now, I see there is work for me to do.  Thou art a slave, Lydia; yet God has called thee to the freedom of the children that he loves; thou art black, yet will thy soul be washed white in the blood of the Lamb; thou art poor, yet shalt thou be made rich through Him who, when on earth, was poor indeed.  Jesus, forgive me!  I murmured that I still was obliged to linger.  Oh! make me the honored instrument of good to this child, and when thou callest me hence, how gladly will I obey the summons.