Doctor Richards saw them gravely to the door, then returned to the parlor, where Alice, with white lips, was restlessly putting chairs in place, and tidying books and ornaments; and Louis was standing where he had been left, with flushed face and clinched baby hands. “If God killed my mamma,” said Louis, as the doctor entered, “then I hate God!” “Hush, Louis,” said the doctor. “I must take you home, little boy. After all, Alice, it don’t do to mix—states of life.” “It would, if people were human,” she said in a stifled voice. “Ah!” he said; “but some people are only—millionnaires.” “Is God a millionnaire?” asked Louis, as they drove away. “Mrs. Randolph thinks so,” said the doctor; “but there’s no such person, Louis, it’s all a myth—that is, a fairy-tale.” “I fink everyfing is a fairy-tale,” said Louis to himself with a sigh of relief; “and I’m glad about it, too; for it’s nice to be a Christ-child, but I don’t want to be God and kill people.” When Dr. Richards returned he found Alice waiting for him in his study. Freddy, she said, had dropped asleep at once, after the evening’s fatigue. “I am glad,” said the doctor; “I feared the excitement might keep him awake.” “Yes,” she said, and then, suddenly, all the storm within her broke forth. “Fred,” she cried, “help me! Is there a God? and is he so cruel? Would he punish my child for his mother’s sin?” “My dear,” he said very gently, “why ask me? you know my opinion on these matters. And you have no very high esteem for Mrs. Randolph that her words should have such weight.” “It is my own conscience!” she cried wildly. “Fred, I will tell you even though it will give you pain. It has rung in my ears night and day, ‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children.’” “Poor little girl,” he said tenderly, stroking her hair. “I hoped at least, Alice, that your religion made you happier.” “My religion! mine! Oh! what _is_ my religion! I feel like little Louis, Fred, that I hate”— “Hush!” he said, “you will be sorry presently, when this excitement has passed away. Go to bed, like a good girl, and forget it all.” “If I only could!” she sighed; “but I won’t pray, Fred; I can’t, to a God of punishment.” He did not reply, except by a kiss, but, when the door had closed behind her, smiled a little bitterly. “The mystery of pain,” he thought, “she said we should solve it together, hoping all the while to convert me, as I knew very well. And her solution is, a God of punishment!” He turned up his reading-lamp and took up the latest medical treatise, which, though it recommended very harsh remedies, he did not decline to believe in. Dr. Richards was a devotee of physical science, not a philologist, and it therefore did not occur to him that, etymologically, Punishment is much the same word as Purification. CHAPTER XII. “O YE ICE AND SNOW, BLESS YE THE LORD!”