“That's all right,” said Stephen. He was a short, athletic man, with an extraordinary width of shoulders and a strong-featured and ugly face, still indicative of goodness and a strange power of sympathy. Three little mongrel dogs were sprawled about the study. One, small and alert, came and rested his head on Christopher's knee. Animals all liked him. Christopher mechanically patted him. Patting an appealing animal was as unconscious with the man as drawing his breath. But he did not even look at the little dog while he stroked it after the fashion which pleased it best. He kept his large, keen, melancholy eyes fixed upon the minister; at length he spoke. He did not speak with as much eagerness as he did with force, bringing the whole power of his soul into his words, which were the words of a man in rebellion against the greatest odds on earth and in all creation--the odds of fate itself. “I have come to say a good deal, Mr. Wheaton,” he began. “Then say it, Mr. Dodd,” replied Stephen, without a smile. Christopher spoke. “I am going back to the very beginning of things,” said he, “and maybe you will think it blasphemy, but I don't mean it for that. I mean it for the truth, and the truth which is too much for my comprehension.” “I have heard men swear when it did not seem blasphemy to me,” said Stephen. “Thank the Lord, you ain't so deep in your rut you can't see the stars!” said Christopher. “But I guess you see them in a pretty black sky sometimes. In the beginning, why did I have to come into the world without any choice?” “You must not ask a question of me which can only be answered by the Lord,” said Stephen. “I am asking the Lord,” said Christopher, with his sad, forceful voice. “I am asking the Lord, and I ask why?” “You have no right to expect your question to be answered in your time,” said Stephen. “But here am I,” said Christopher, “and I was a question to the Lord from the first, and fifty years and more I have been on the earth.” “Fifty years and more are nothing for the answer to such a question,” said Stephen. Christopher looked at him with mournful dissent; there was no anger about him. “There was time before time,” said he, “before the fifty years and more began. I don't mean to blaspheme, Mr. Wheaton, but it is the truth. I came into the world whether I would or not; I was forced, and then I was told I was a free agent. I am no free agent. For fifty years and more I have thought about it, and I have found out that, at least. I am a slave--a slave of life.” “For that matter,” said Stephen, looking curiously at him, “so am I. So are we all.”