“Here it is, Mother,” cried the boy. The father could hear him turning the leaves of the big Bible. “Then came Peter and said to Him, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Until seven times? Jesus said unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times; but, Until seventy times seven.’ There, Mother—‘Seventy times seven,’ four hundred and ninety times,” cried the boy triumphantly. “And everybody is sorry some time for his sins, isn’t he? Anyway, He said four hundred and ninety times, so that’s all right. Four hundred and ninety times in one day; that’s from seven to seven, _a_cause he couldn’t sin in his sleep, Mother. So I guess He’d just forgive the very worstest man in the whole world, wouldn’t He, Mother?” “Yes, dear, I believe he would.” There was a note of joyous relief in her voice. She had escaped once more from another of those terrible theological dilemmas into which her eager young son was so frequently forcing her. “I know He would _a_cause you would me. Mother, would you, four hundred and ninety times in one day?” “Yes, dear.” “Five hundred times?” “Yes, dear.” “A thousand million times?” “Yes, dear, you know I would.” “An’ God’s just as good as you, Mother, isn’t He?” “Oh, my dear, don’t say that. I am not good.” “You are, Mother,” shouted the boy indignantly. “You’re just as good as God.” “Hush, dear, hush! Don’t speak like that. God is perfect, you know. No! No! Don’t say that again.” “All right, Mother, but I know all the same. Anyway, seventy times seven is four hundred and ninety.” “Yes, my boy, always remember that as long as you live. And whatever you do or whatever happens, remember that.” “Sure thing! Certainly, I mean, Mother,” cried the boy, hastily correcting his form of speech at the look in his mother’s face. “Seventy times seven is four hundred and ninety, anyway.”