2. Send the mechanical steam-boat so long and earnestly prayed for, with Faith and Belief? 3. Help the boy to lead a higher and a better life, to eat up his crusts and fat as directed, to avoid chivvying the hens, inking his fingers, haunting the stables, stealing green apples in the orchard, tearing his clothes, and generally doing evil with fire, water, mud, stones and other tempting and injurious things? And was it entirely decent of God to be eternally spying on a fellow, as appeared to be His confirmed habit? As for that awful heart-rending Crucifixion, was that the sort of thing for a Father to look on at…. As bad as that brutal old Abraham with Isaac his son … were _all_ “Good” Fathers like that …? And nightmare dreams of Hell—a Hell in which there was a _Snake_—wrought no improvement. And the Bible! How strangely and dully they talked, and what people! That nasty Jacob and Esau business, those horrid Israelites, the Unfaithful Steward; the Judge who let himself be pestered into action; those poor unfortunate swine that were made to rush violently down the steep place into the sea; Ananias and Sapphira. No—not a nice book at all. The truth is that Theology, at the age of seven, is not commendable—setting aside the question of whether (at any age) Theology is a web of words, ritual, dogma, tradition, invention, shibboleth; a web originally spun by interested men to obscure God from their dupes. So the boy worshipped Dearest and distrusted and disliked the God she gave him, a big sinister bearded Man who hung spread-eagled above the world, covering the entire roof of the Universe, and watched, watched, watched, with unwinking, all-seeing eye, and remembered with unforgetting, unrelenting mind. Cruel. Ungentlemanly. _Jealous!_ Cold. Also the boy fervently hoped it might never be his lot to go to Heaven—a shockingly dreary place where it was always Sunday and one must, presumably, be very quiet except when singing hymns. A place tenanted by white-robed Angels, unsympathetic towards dirty-faced little sinners who tore their clothes. Angels, cold, superior, unhuggable, haughty, given to ecstatic throes, singers of _Hallelujah_ and other silly words—always _praising_. How he loathed and dreaded the idea of Dearest being an Angel! Fancy sweet Dearest or his own darling Lucille with silly wings (like a beastly goose or turkey in dear old Cook’s larder), with a long trumpet, perhaps, in a kind of night-gown, flying about the place, it wasn’t decent at all—Dearest and Lucille, whom he adored and hugged—unsympathetic, cold, superior, unhuggable, haughty; and the boy who was very, _very_ tender-hearted, would throw his arms round Dearest’s neck and hug and hug and hug, for he abhorred the thought of her becoming a beastly angel. Surely, if God knew His business, Dearest would be always happy and bright and live ever so long, and be ever so old, forty years and more.