NOBODY knew or even dreamed how large a thought was puzzling the brains of little Sadie Wilmot. It had begun at family worship that morning. Or no; perhaps it began back of that, at the meeting of “Cheerful Givers,” on Thursday. Mr. Wilmot said it was an absurd idea for such little dots as Sadie to be going to missionary meeting, but grandmamma quoted to him: “As the twig is bent, the tree is inclined,” and herself dressed Sadie for the gathering. Then Miss Harlowe, the leader, had told a story about a little heathen boy who prayed to an ugly little wooden image, with a hideous face; she showed a model of the little heathen’s god, and Sadie was shocked and distressed. She thought about the heathen a good deal that day. Now, this Saturday morning grandfather, at family worship, had read a Psalm. Sadie had not been listening very closely; in fact, it was hard for her to listen to Bible reading, some way, unless it had a story in it. This was not in the least like a story, and Sadie’s thoughts were, if the truth must be told, upon her dollie’s new hat and how she should make it, when she heard these words: “Ask of me, and I will give thee the heathen for thine inheritance.” It was that word “heathen” which caught her ear. Who was talking? To whom were the heathen to be given? Had some naughty king given them away to a bad man, and was that why they prayed to ugly wooden dollies? Sadie’s thoughts were in a turmoil; she could hardly wait until the prayer was over, before she was at grandpapa’s knee questioning.

“Why, child,” said grandpapa, with a puzzled air, for he was not used to explaining the Bible to little people, “it means what it says; the heathen are to be given to Jesus.”

“Given to Jesus!” said Sadie, amazed, “then why do they pray to ugly wooden dollies?”

“Because He hasn’t got them yet; they don’t know they belong to him.”

“Why doesn’t somebody tell them?”

“They do. People are at work telling them. Did you never hear about the missionaries, child? I thought you belonged to a Mission Band?”

Of course she did, and had heard about missionaries, and assured her grandfather that she gave five cents a month to support them. He did not say that that was a larger sum than he gave regularly for the same purpose; for some reason he did not care to do so; he only said:

“Very well, then, you understand all about it. The Bible says the heathen will be given to Jesus, and the missionaries have gone over there to tell them about it, and show them how to serve the Lord.”

“Has every single one of them heard it?” questioned Sadie, in great earnestness.

“Well, no,” said grandfather; “I believe they haven’t yet.”

“Why don’t they do it faster? Why don’t lots more missionaries go, and take Bibles, and hurry? Because maybe some of them will die before they hear it.”

Sadie was in intense earnest, but her father laughed, and said: “That’s the question, father. Puts some of you Christians in a tight place, doesn’t it?”

Sadie could not imagine what he meant; her grandfather sat at ease in his big leather-covered chair, and was not in a tight place at all. But she was disappointed at his telling her to run away and not ask any more questions for five minutes. If she only had a mamma, Sadie thought, she would ask her all the questions she pleased, for her friend Trudie Brown said that mammas never got tired of answering. But Sadie’s mamma went to heaven when she was a wee baby.

She went away to think it over, as she had to do with so many of her puzzles, only to have it added to presently by words from her grandmother.

“I declare!” said that good woman, coming in from the back yard, where she had been talking to Tony, the errand-boy, “that boy is a perfect heathen.”

Sadie nearly dropped her dollie with a china head on the floor, in her dismay. “Is he truly, Grandma?” she asked.

“Yes, he is,” said grandmamma, with emphasis; “I don’t believe there is a greater heathen in the depths of Africa than Tony. I have been trying to explain the simplest matter to him, and he does not understand me as well as a child of three ought to.”

“How should he?” asked grandfather, to whom this sentence was chiefly addressed; “he has never had any chance to learn. The whole settlement over there where he came from live like heathen, and know no better.”

Then came one of Sadie’s startling questions: “Grandfather, is he one of those who were given to Jesus?”

“What?” asked grandfather, in astonishment. He had already forgotten the morning’s questions.

“Why, isn’t he one that you read about, out of the Bible, that was given to Jesus?”

“Oh!” said grandfather, “I suppose so; why, yes, child, certainly. Jesus came to save him, as well as other heathen.”

“Does he know it?”

“What a child you are!” said grandmother; but as this was no answer Sadie waited, looking at her grandfather.

“I doubt if he does,” he said at last, “or would understand if he was told.”

“Why, then he ought to be told over and over, ever so many times, as you said you had to do with Bruce before he understood that he was to stand on his hind feet and ask for a bone, oughtn’t he?”

Both grandfather and grandmother began to laugh, though Sadie had no knowledge of what there was to laugh about; she was often treated in this way, and did not understand it. She turned away with a dignified air, a trifle hurt that her logic should produce only laughter; but there was decision as well as dignity in the tone in which she said: “I mean to tell him.”

That was the beginning of effort for Tony Black, as he was called for convenience, though his full name was Antony Blackwell.

Faithfully did Sadie pour information on him and ply him with questions until, from staring and being stupidly amused, and then half-vexed with her, he at last became interested, and listened and asked questions himself, and began to think. “Sadie’s heathen,” he was familiarly called by certain amused friends, who were told the story.

He was called so long after the name had ceased to fit him; for this is a true story of something which happened years ago. The years went by, and Tony Black became so utterly changed that people forgot that they had ever called him heathen, or even Tony. “Young Blackwell” was the name by which he began to be known; then, after a time, “Mr. Blackwell.” And one evening, when there was a great meeting in one of the largest churches of a certain city, he was introduced as “The Rev. Mr. Blackwell, who is under appointment to go to Africa as a missionary.” Who do you think went with him? Sadie herself! He told on the platform something of his story; of the time when he was called “Sadie’s heathen,” and of his joy and pride in having the name altered, until now, by her friends, he was called “Sadie’s minister.” But by mere acquaintances they were spoken of as Rev. and Mrs. Antony Blackwell.

Myra Spafford.