"How is your babe this morning?" asked Emma.
"Better, thank you," replied Graffam; and growing warm-hearted in her
sunlight, he told her how the little thing had smiled, and crowed at
him; or _began_ to tell, and then stopped short, fearing that he should
forfeit her respect.
"It is a dear child," said Emma; "and perhaps, Mr. Graffam, it may
please God to restore him to health, and he may grow up to bless the
world."
Graffam started. The idea that a child of his should grow up to bless
the world seemed too marvelous; "and yet," thought he, "I was not made
for a curse."
"I hope that he may live," said the poor man sincerely; and wondered
how that hope came, for formerly the child's life had been a matter of
utter indifference to him.
"If it please God," added Emma.
"It has pleased God," said Graffam, "to lay three of my children
beneath the sod, and perhaps it were better if they were all there, for
we are----"
"Are what, sir?"
"Poor and despised, miss."
"God does not despise the poor," said Emma. "When his Son came to live
among men, the poor of this world were his chosen friends and
companions."
"Perhaps so," the poor man said, and turned his head mournfully away:
"if poverty were all----"
"He does not despise the _sinner_ either," said Emma, softly; "so far
from that, he delivered his only Son unto death for their sake."
Graffam lifted his eyes from the ground, and looked seriously into her
face.
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