"Bessy," said Cissy in a whisper, "do you think they'll burn us all
to-day?"
"I reckon, sweet heart, they be scarce like to burn thee."
"But they'll have to do to me whatever they do to Father!" cried Cissy,
earnestly.
"Dear child, thou wist not what burning is."
"Oh, but I've burnt my fingers before now," said Cissy, with an air of
extensive experience which would have suited an old woman. "It's not
proper pleasant: but the worst's afterwards, and there wouldn't be any
afterwards, would there? It would be Heaven afterwards, wouldn't it? I
don't see that there's so much to be 'feared of in being burnt. If they
didn't burn me, and did Will and Baby, and--and Father"--and Cissy's
voice faltered, and she began to sob--"that would be dreadful--dreadful!
O Bessy, won't you ask God not to give them leave? They couldn't,
could they, unless He did?"
"Nay, dear heart, not unless He did," answered Elizabeth, feeling her
own courage strengthened by the child's faith.
"Then if you and I both ask Him _very_ hard,--O Bessy! don't you think
He will?"