firmness. "But see," she wailed, her little white brow a mesh of painful
wrinkles, "it is all no good. God is still angry. Oh, what shall I do?"
And, to the surprise and distress of Maria Dolores, she burst into a
sudden passion of tears, sobbing, sobbing, with that abandonment of
grief which only children know.

"My dear, my dear," exclaimed Maria Dolores, drawing her to her. "My
dearest, you mustn't cry like that. Dear little Annunziata. What is it?
Why do you cry so, dear one? Answer me. Tell me."

But Annunziata only buried her face in Maria Dolores' sleeve, and
moaned, while long, tremulous convulsions shook her frail little body.
Maria Dolores put both arms about her, hugged her close, and laid her
cheek upon her hair.

"Darling Annunziata, don't cry. Why should you cry so, dearest? God is
not angry with you. Why should you think that God is angry with you? God
loves you, darling. Everyone loves you. There, there--dearest--don't
cry. Sweet one, dear one."

Transitions, with Annunziata, were sometimes inexplicably rapid. All at
once her sobbing ceased; she looked up, and smiled, smiled radiantly,
from a face that was wet and glistening with tears. "Thanks be to God,"
she piously exulted; "God is not angry any more."

"Of course He isn't," said Maria Dolores, tightening her hug, and
touching Annunziata's curls lightly with her lips. "But He was never
angry. What made you think that God was angry?"

Annunziata's big eyes widened. "Didn't you notice?" she asked, in a