David’s eyes opened wide.
“Who?” he asked, briefly.
“God,” answered the child, with deep gravity and a sort of settled sadness that was not without its effect upon his companion. “I think He must have quite forgotten me.”
“Why?”
“I feel forgotten,” answered Bertie, and his lip quivered. “I feel as if everybody had forgotten me, and God too. If He hadn’t, why don’t I remember?—He might let me, I think.”
But Bertie couldn’t get on any further than that, and David stood staring over the sea, as if to glean inspiration from the ever-changing, tossing sheet of water.
When his answer came, it was spoken with a sort of modest diffidence, as if he hardly knew whether it would be accepted as an answer at all.
“He don’t forget easy, I don’t think, lovy. He don’t never forget to stop the sea when he’s come up high enough. It don’t matter whether it’s nights or days, He’s always watching, and sends it back again. If He forgot only once, our cottage would be drownded, it would, but He never do. Father’s lived there all his life, and his father afore him; that’s ever so many years, and He’s never forgot once all that time. It do seem as if forgetting wasn’t much in His way.”
This was such a very long speech for David to make, that when it was done he seemed almost afraid of his own boldness; but Bertie made no answer, only stood quite still, looking dreamily out over the water.
After a long silence David took courage and spoke again.