,
Go up, they said to me;
Jerusalem, within thy walls,
Our feet shall standing be.'"

Patty was crying by this time very loud, and there was a certain babyish
sound in her wail which suddenly reminded Deacon Turner that he was
talking to a little girl, and not to a young woman.

"There, there, now, don't cry," said he, patting her head, for her
sun-bonnet had fallen back on her neck, "you didn't mean to make fun of
religion; I'm sartin sure of that."

"No, I di-idn't, or if I did, I di-idn't mean to," almost howled Patty.

A grim smile overspread the deacon's face. The idea of an infant like
that making fun of religion!

"Somehow I was thinkin' you was an older child than what you be," said
he, rubbing her silky hair as roughly as a plough would go through a bed
of flowers. The action almost drove Patty wild, but the good man meant
it most kindly.

"Let's see, I suppose you know your letters now?" added he, going to the
other extreme, and talking to her as if she were very young indeed.
"And, of course, your mother, who is a godly woman, has you say your
catechism. Do you remember, my dear, who made you?"

The question caused Patty to raise her tearful eyes in astonishment. Did
he think a girl six and a half years old didn't know that?

"Yes, sir," said she, meekly; "God made me."

"Right, my dear; that's well said. You're not such a bad child after
all, and seem to have considerable sense. Here is a dollar for you, my
little woman, and tell your mother I know she's bringing you up in the
way you should go, and I hope when you are old you'll not depart from
it."

Patty stared at the dollar through her tears, and it seemed to stare
back again with a face almost as big as a full moon.

"O, thank you, sir," said she, with a deep courtesy.

Never in her life had she owned a whole silver dollar before. How it
danced and shone! She held it tight, for it did not seem to be real, and
she was afraid it would melt or fly away before she could get it home.

"Mother, O mother," cried she, "see this live dollar! Deacon Turner gave
it to me for remembering who made me!"

"Why, child, what do you mean?"

"She means just what she says, mother," said Mary. "Deacon Turner spoke
to her in prayer meeting last night--"

"Why, Patience!"

"And he was sorry for it, mother, just as Siller thought he'd be; and so
he wanted to give her something to make up, I suppose; but _should_ you
have thought he'd have