"Dr. King," said David, scraping up the sugar from his saucer, "is God
good because He likes to be, or because He has to be?"
"David," said William King, "you will be the death of me!"
"Because, if He likes to be," David murmured, "I don't see why He gets
praised; and if He has to be, why--"
"Dr. King," said Helena breathlessly, "I'm afraid--really, I'm not
prepared for company; and--"
"Oh," said William, cheerfully, "don't bother about that. Mrs. King is
going to bring up one or two little things, and I believe Mrs. Barkley
has some ideas on the subject. Well, I must be going along. I hope you
won't be sorry to see us? The fact is, you are too lonely up here with
only David to keep you busy, though I must say, if he fires off
questions like this one, I should think you would be pretty well
occupied!"
When he had gone, Helena Richie sat looking blankly at David. "What on
earth shall I do!" she said aloud.
"Did God make Sarah?" David demanded.
"Yes, dear, yes!"
"Did He make me, and the Queen, and my rabbits?"
"Why, of course. Oh, David, you do ask so many questions!"
"Everything has to be made," he ruminated.
She agreed, absently. David put his spoon down, deeply interested.
"Who made God?--another god, higher up?"
"I think," she said, "that I'll send word I have a headache!"
David sighed, and gave up theological research, "Dr. King didn't look
at my scar, but I made Theophilus Bell pay me a penny to show it to
him. Mrs. Richie, when I am a man, I'm never going to wash behind my
ears. I tell Sarah so every morning, I'm going to see my rabbits, now.
Good-by."
He slipped down from his chair and left her to her perplexity--as if
she had not perplexity enough without this! For the last few days she
had been worried almost to death about Mr. Benjamin Wright. She had
not written to Lloyd yet of that terrible interview in the garden
which would drive her from Old Chester; she had been afraid to. She
felt instinctively that his mood was not hospitable to any plan that
would bring her to live in the East. He would be less hospitable if
she came because she had been found out in Old Chester. But her
timidity about writing to him was a curious alarm to her; it was a
confession of something she would not admit even long enough to deny
it. Nevertheless, she did not write. "I will to-morrow," she assured
herself each day, But now, on top of her worry of indecision and
unacknowledged fear, came this new dismay--a party! How furious Lloyd
would be if he heard of it; well, he must not hear of it. But what
could she do? If she put it off with a flimsy excuse, it would only
defer the descent upon her. How helpless she was! They would come,
these people, they would be friendly; she could not escape them.