Perhaps you had to sort things out and keep them separate. Here was the world, here were Mamma and Mark and kittens and rabbits, and all the things you really cared about: drawing pictures, and playing the Hungarian March and getting excited in the Easter holidays when the white evenings came and Mark raced you from the Green Man to the Horns Tavern. Here was the sudden, secret happiness you felt when you were by yourself and the fields looked beautiful. It was always coming now, with a sort of rush and flash, when you least expected it. And _there_ was God and religion and duty. The nicest part of religion was music, and knowing how the world was made, and the beautiful sounding bits of the Bible. You could like religion. But duty was doing all the things you didn't like because you didn't like them. And you couldn't honestly say you liked God. God had to be propitiated; your righteousness was filthy rags; so you couldn't propitiate him. Jesus had to do it for you. All you had to do was to believe, really believe that he had done it. But supposing you hadn't got to believe it, supposing you hadn't got to believe anything at all, it would be easier to think about. The things you cared for belonged to each other, but God didn't belong to them. He didn't fit in anywhere. You couldn't help feeling that if God was love, and if he was everywhere, he ought to have fitted in. Perhaps, after all, there were two Gods; one who made things and loved them, and one who didn't; who looked on sulking and finding fault with what the clever kind God had made. When the midsummer holidays came and brook-jumping began she left off thinking about God. II. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown"-- The picture in the _Sunday At Home_ showed the old King in bed and Prince Hal trying on his crown. But the words were not the _Sunday At Home_; they were taken out of Shakespeare. Mark showed her the place. Mark was in the schoolroom chanting his home-lessons: "'Yet once more, oh ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown with ivy never sere'"-- That sounded nice. "Say it again, Mark, say it again." Mark said it again. He also said: "'Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing!'" The three books stood on the bookshelf in the schoolroom, the thin Shakespeare in diamond print, the small brown leather Milton, the very small fat Pope's _Iliad_ in the red cover. Mark gave them to her for her own. She made Catty put her bed between the two windows, and Mark made a bookshelf out of a piece of wood and some picture cord, and hung it within reach. She had a happy, excited feeling when she thought of the three books; it made her wake early. She read from five o'clock till Catty called her at seven, and again after Catty had tucked her up and left her, till the white light in the room was grey. She learnt _Lycidas_ by heart, and