"It worried me. Oh, Miss Hartill, what does it all mean? Darwin says, we just grew—doesn't he? and that the Bible's all wrong. But you say that doesn't matter—it's just Old Testament? And this play says—do you remember? the wife is ill—and the husband, who cures people by praying—he can't cure her——"
"Well?" said Clare impatiently.
"And he says, if the apostles did miracles, we ought to be able to—he kills his wife, trying. He can't, you see. But the point is, if he couldn't, with all his faith—could the apostles? And if the apostles couldn't, could Christ Himself? The miracles are just only a tale, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," said Clare. "You're not clear, Louise, but I know what you mean."
"It frightened me, that play," said the child in a low voice. "If there were no miracles—and everything one reads makes one sure there weren't—why, then, the Bible's not true! Jesus was just a man! He didn't rise? Perhaps there isn't an afterwards? Perhaps there isn't God?"
"Perhaps," said Clare.
The child's eyes were wide and frightened. She put her hand timidly on Clare's knee.
"Miss Hartill—you believe in God?"
Clare looked at her, weighing her.
Louise spoke again; her voice had grown curiously apprehensive.