"Don't you think there may be worse things than wrong?"
This being so contrary to my pet principles, I answered, emphatically, that I didn't think so at all. I brought out my maxim that if you did right nothing but right could come of it; but she surprised me by saying, simply, "I don't believe that."
I was a little indignant.
"But it's not a matter of believing; it's one of proving, of demonstration."
"I've done right, and wrong came of it."
"Oh, but it couldn't—not in the long run."
"Well, then I did wrong. That's what I've been afraid of, and what—what some one else tells me." If a pet bird could look at you with a challenging expression it was the thing she did. "Now what do you say?"
I really didn't know what to say. I spoke from instinct, and some common sense.
"If one's done wrong, or made a mistake, I suppose the only way one can rectify it is to begin again to do right. Right must have a rectifying power."
"But if you've made a mistake the mistake is there, unless you go back and unmake it. If you don't, isn't it what they call building on a bad foundation?"