“I don’t think an angel would talk and act like me.”
“Say, you’re getting the idea. It isn’t a question whether an angel would talk and act like you; the question is, could an angel do it?”
“It sounds all right.”
“Now,” said Bobby triumphantly, poking his uncle in the ribs, “suppose that God just now annihilated you and put an angel in your place, how could I know it wasn’t you?”
“Why, you just couldn’t know. You would think it was me.”
“Think again, uncle; it’s a hard question. It stumped the whole of our communion class for five minutes, and I got the right answer, and the priest gave me a holy picture for answering it.”
Mr. Compton wrinkled his brows in thought.
“There’s one thing sure,” he at length said, “God would know that the thing in my place was not John Compton.”
“Uncle, you’re getting hot.”
“And therefore,” pursued Compton, speaking slowly, “if God told you—”