sly, and
then lay down with his shaggy head on the girl's bare legs. As Donald
talked, Rose played with the dog, rolling him over and rubbing his
underbody until his mouth opened in a grotesque animal imitation of her
own wonderful smile, which constantly flashed to her lips like a ray of
light, only to vanish as swiftly, and leave its slowly fading afterglow
in her deep eyes.

"Dr. Mac," said the child timidly, during a moment of contented silence,
her natural use of his intimate nickname, both startling and pleasing
Donald, "yo-all allowed thet yo' doctored children mostly. I loves
babies more'n anything else in the world, 'ceptin' only grandpap;
they're so purty an' sweet an' helpless-like, thet I reckon the Lord
loves 'em powerful, an' the' haint nothin' finer then takin' keer of
'em."

Donald nodded with pleasure, and the girl continued, dreamily:

"I allows thet, when God made people an' put the breath o' life inter
them, he hadn't quite got outer his mind what he done on an earlier day,
an' was jest improvin' on hit; fer hit sorter seems ter me thet big men
an' women air like growin' trees, fashioned fer ter stand up agin ther
eliments an' storms most times; but babies air like tiny leetle
flowers--so weak an' tender thet we hev ter take mighty good keer of
'em. Don't yo' never feel, somehow, like yo' was tendin' a gyarden of
purty flowers, an' a-drivin' away the grubs an' bugs what would make 'em
wilt an' die?"

"To be sure I do, my child," he answered, wondering if she realized how
apt was her simile, since most disease is, indeed, caused by "bugs an'
grubs." "And many people, with imaginations like yours, have felt
exactly the same. Did you ever read a poem called 'The Reaper'? No, I
suppose not," he added, as the girl shook her curls, while a wistful
look crept into her eyes.

"It was written by Longfellow, a very famous poet who used to live near
my home city of Boston, and no man ever loved little children better
than he did. I had to learn the verses years ago when I was a schoolboy,
and I remember the first of them still:--

"'There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.'

"For--he has the Reaper say--the Lord has need of the pretty flowers to
make his garden in Heaven more bright and fair."

"I never thought er thet," said the girl seriously, "but I reckon hit's
so. Grandpap's