"What's that you say? Like a heathen?" cried poor Teresa.

"Yes, Teresa dear, like a heathen. My father used to read me missionary
stories on Sunday, and in these stories I always noticed that the heathen
people live without praying to God, and that they didn't read the Bible,
and that they didn't know how to sing any hymns, and they had no church to
go to, that is, until the missionaries came. But we are different here in
this house from the heathen because they had never heard of God." And then
she added with one of those lovely smiles that always seemed to spread a
halo over her, "All the heathen in the pictures that I saw had black skins,
whereas you, Teresa, have such a lovely white face."

Poor Teresa, placed her well-worn hands over her wrinkled countenance, and
said, "Paula, Paula, you certainly are right. So we are even less worthy of
God's mercy than they are."

Paula looked at her for a moment in silence and then, kneeling down beside
her, said, "Teresa, you just pray with me, won't you? I know the Lord Jesus
will pardon you, and He'll help you to love Him for He has promised to give
you a new heart. I'm only a little girl, but He helps me and He hears me
when I pray, for that's what He has promised, Teresa. Once my father taught
me a beautiful verse, and when my uncle returns my Bible, I'll show it to
you, but this is what it says, 'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise
cast out.'"

Poor Teresa, with her head hidden in her hands, could not reply.

"Do come and kneel with me," insisted Paula, pulling her by her apron.
After a long silence suddenly Teresa fell heavily on her knees beside the
bed. Paula up to this moment appeared to have forgotten the rest of us, but