“God did not arrange for the Bunn boys to be drowned in the river, did He, Daddy? They just went themselves, and their father told them not to. God did not arrange it. They did it themselves.” With a swift glance the father took in the salient features of the scene, the pale face of the boy with its trembling lips and burning eyes, the startled, perplexed and distressed face of his mother. “Certainly, they went themselves,” said the father heartily. “They were told not to go, they knew that the high water was dangerous and that the old dugout wasn’t safe, but they _would_ go. Poor chaps, it was awfully hard lines, but they wouldn’t take advice.” “I knew it, I knew it, Daddy!” cried the boy, breaking into a storm of tears. “I knew He wouldn’t do anything bad. I just knew He wouldn’t hurt anybody——” The mother caught him in her arms and held him fast. “Of course He wouldn’t, darling. You didn’t understand—we none of us understand, but we know He won’t do anything unkind, or to hurt us. We are sure of that, we are sure of that.” Her own tears were flowing as she rocked the boy in her arms. “But,” she added, more to herself than to the boy in her arms, “it is hard to understand”—her eyes wandered up the hillside at the back of the bungalow to a little mound enclosed in a white paling—“no, we can’t understand. We will just have to wait, and wait, and be sure He doesn’t do anything unkind.” “O’ course, I knew He couldn’t,” said little Paul, snuggling down into her arms. “I would suggest a more elementary course of theology for a boy of eight—or nine, is he?—dear,” said her husband, grinning at her. “Perhaps we had better stop it,” sighed the mother, “at least, for a while. But I did want to go through with it.” “But, my dear, what earthly use is that stuff? I don’t say,” he hastened to add, reading her face, “it isn’t the very finest system of iron-bound, steel-clad theology ever given to mortal mind to chew upon. But, after all, can you reasonably expect the infant there to take in propositions upon which the world’s thinkers have been arranged in opposing camps from the great Socrates down to your great little self?” “And yet, after all, a child is no more puzzled about these mysteries—free will, determinism and all that—than are the best and wisest of men today. So why not give him the formulæ? I think we will go on.” “Well, you know I don’t agree. And you know you belong to the ancient pedagogic school in this,” chaffed her husband. “Yes, I know we don’t agree,” she smiled, “but I would like to go through the Catechism. After all, it is a wonderful little book, you know.” “Wonderful! I should say! Nothing like it has ever been put forth by the human mind. But——” “Oh, I know all you would say, but I would like to go on——”