"But Jesus died for poor people," I said, turning round upon
my attendant. She met me with a gaze I did not understand, and
said nothing. Margaret was not like my old June. She was a
clear mulatto, with a fresh colour and rather a handsome face;
and her eyes, unlike June's little anxious, restless, almond
shaped eyes, were liquid and full. She went on care- fully
with the toilet duties which busied her; and I was puzzled.

"Did you never hear of Jesus?" I said presently. "Don't you
know that He loves poor people?"

"Reckon He loves rich people de best, Miss Daisy," the girl
said, in a dry tone.

I faced about to deny this, and to explain how the Lord had a
special love and care for the poor. I saw that my hearer did
not believe me. "She had heerd so," she said.

The dressing-bell sounded long and loud, and I was obliged to
let Margaret go on with my dressing; but in the midst of my
puzzled state of mind, I felt childishly sure of the power of
that truth, of the Lord's love, to break down any hardness and
overcome any coldness. Yet, "how shall they hear without a
preacher?" and I had so little chance to speak.

"Then, Margaret," said I at last, "is there no place where you
can go to hear about the things in the Bible?"

"No, missis; I never goes."