“You’re sure it’s God who makes the tide turn, David?”
“Yes, quite sure. Mother says so, and father and teacher and everybody. Besides nobody else couldn’t do it.”
“No,” answered Bertie; “there was a king once who tried to—no, let me think how it was. His servants told him he could, because he was such a great king; but he knew he couldn’t, and did not like the people to say such things. So he came down and sat on the sand one day when the tide was coming in, and told it to go back, and of course it wouldn’t; and the silly men who had pretended to think the sea would obey him were made ashamed of themselves. Somebody told me the story once—it was a lady—we were sitting in a big room with red curtains, by a fire—”
Bertie stopped suddenly; the flash had gone and left him in darkness; he could see nothing more. David had listened with deep attention.
“That’s a nice story,” he said, adding, after a moment’s pause, “I knew there wasn’t nobody but God as could stop the sea.”
Bertie gave himself a little shake and brought himself back to the present.
“Do you think God looks down out of heaven every time to send it back?”
“I think He must. It do all go so regular like; don’t see how it could if He didn’t look after it well.”
Bertie turned his answer over, and seemed convinced.
“Then, if we go on sitting here, He can’t help seeing us too?”