"Kiss me," she said, "little Miriam. Have they not told you of me? I am
Constance Glen--soon to be your teacher."

"Then I think I shall learn," I made grave reply, putting away the thick
curls from my eyes and fixing them once more steadily on the face of the
new-comer. "Yes, I _will_ kiss you, for you look good and pretty. Did my
mother send you here?"

"She is a strange child, Miss Glen," I heard Evelyn whisper. "Don't mind
her--she often asks such questions."

"Very natural and affecting ones," Miss Glen observed, quietly, and the
tears sprang to her violet eyes, at which I wondered. Yet, understanding
not her words, I remembered them for later comprehension; a habit of
childhood too little appreciated or considered, I think, by older
people.

She had not replied to my question, so I repeated it eagerly. "Did my
dear mother send you to me?" I said. "And where is she now?"

"No, tender child! I have not seen your mother. She is in heaven, I
trust; where I hope we shall all be some day--with God. _He_ sent me to
you, probably--I fancy so, at least."

"Then God has got good again. He was very bad last week--very wicked;
he killed our mother," whispering mysteriously.

"He is never bad, Miriam, never wicked; you must not say such things--no
Christian would."