A great glow of something I dare not attempt to define grew upon Charley’s face. It was like what I saw on it when Clara laid her hand on his. But presently it died out again, and he sighed—
‘If there were a God—that is, if I were sure there was a God, Wilfrid!’
I could not answer. How could I? I had never seen God, as the old story says Moses did on the clouded mountain. All I could return was,
‘Suppose there should be a God, Charley!—Mightn’t there be a God!’
‘I don’t know,’ he returned. ‘How should I know whether there might be a God?’
‘But may there not be a might be?’ I rejoined.
‘There may be. How should I say the other thing?’ said Charley.
I do not mean this was exactly what he or I said. Unable to recall the words themselves, I put the sense of the thing in as clear a shape as I can.
We were seated upon a stone in the bed of the stream, off which the sun had melted the ice. The bank rose above us, but not far. I thought I heard a footstep. I jumped up, but saw no one. I ran a good way up the stream to a place where I could climb the bank; but then saw no one. The footstep, real or imagined, broke our conversation at that point, and we did not resume it. All that followed was—
‘If I were the sparrow, Charley, I would not only forgive you, but haunt you for ever out of gratitude that you were sorry you had killed me.’