“Jesus cried over Lazarus, and He wasn’t even His brother,” she answered in a reflective voice, then by way of defending herself added inconsequently: “I was watching two Hottentot gods fight.”
As Mr. Dove could think of no reply to her very final Scriptural example, he attacked her on the latter point.
“A cruel amusement,” he said, “especially as I have heard that boys, yes, and men, too, pit these poor insects against each other, and make bets upon them.”
“Nature is cruel, not I, father. Nature is always cruel,” and she glanced towards the little grave under the rock. Then, while for the second time her father hesitated, not knowing what to answer, she added quickly, “Is mother better now?”
“No,” he said, “worse, I think, very hysterical and quite unable to see things in the true light.”
She rose and faced him, for she was a courageous child, then asked:
“Father, why don’t you take her back? She isn’t fit to go on. It is wrong to drag her into this wilderness.”
At this question he grew very angry, and began to scold and to talk of the wickedness of abandoning his “call.”
“But mother has not got a ‘call,’” she broke in.
Then, as for the third time he could find no answer, he declared vehemently that they were both in league against him, instruments used by the Evil One to tempt him from his duty by working on his natural fears and affections, and so forth.