"Miss Janet," said Lydia, "aint Miss Alice white?"
"Very pale," said Miss Janet, looking at Alice; then, with a sigh, turning to the mountains again.
"What makes her so white?" asked Lydia, in an under tone.
"She has had a headache all day. Be quiet, child," said Miss Janet.
After a moment, Lydia said, "I wish I could have de headache all de time."
"What do you say such a foolish thing as that for, Lydia?"
"'Kase I'd like to be white, like Miss Alice." Miss Janet did not reply. Again Lydia spoke, "If I was to stay all time in de house, and never go in de sun, would I git white?"
"No--no--foolish child; what gives you such ideas?"
There was another pause. Mrs. Weston fanned Alice, who, with closed eyes, laid languidly on the lounge.
"Miss Janet," said Lydia, speaking very softly, "who made de lightning-bugs?"
"You know that God made every thing," said Miss Janet. "I have often told you so."
"He didn't make mammy's house, ma'am; I seed de men makin it."
"No; man makes houses, but God made all the beautiful things in nature. He made man, and trees, and rivers, and such things as man could not make."
Lydia looked up at the sky. The sun had set, and the moon was coming forth, a few stars glistened there. Long, fleecy clouds extended over the arch of heaven, and some passing ones for a moment obscured the brightness that gilded the beautiful scene.
"Miss Janet," said Lydia, "its mighty pretty there; but 'spose it was to fall."
"It cannot fall. God holds it in its place."
Another interval and Lydia said: "Miss Janet, 'spose God was to die, den de sky would broke down."
"What put such a dreadful thought into your head, child?" said Miss Janet. "God cannot die."
"No, he cannot. Have I not often told you that God is a spirit? He created all things, but he never was made; he cannot die."
Lydia said inquiringly, "Wasn't Jesus Christ God, ma'am?"
"Yes, he was the Son of God, and he was God."
"Well, ma'am, he died onct, dat time de Jews crucified him--dat time de ground shook, and de dead people got up--dat time he was nailed to de cross. So, ma'am, if God died onct, couldn't he die agin?"
Miss Janet, arousing herself from her reverie, looked at the child. There she stood, her eyes fixed upon the sky, her soul engaged in solving this mysterious question. Her little hands hung listlessly by her side; there was no beauty in her face; the black skin, the projecting lips, the heavy features, designated her as belonging to a degraded race. Yet the soul was looking forth from its despised tenement, and eagerly essaying to grasp things beyond its reach.