Saxon shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
“But if we do wrong we get ours, don't we?” Mary persisted. “That's what they all say, except Bert. He says he don't care what he does, he'll never get his, because when he dies he's dead, an' when he's dead he'd like to see any one put anything across on him that'd wake him up. Ain't he terrible, though? But it's all so funny. Sometimes I get scared when I think God's keepin' an eye on me all the time. Do you think he knows what I'm sayin' now? What do you think he looks like, anyway?”
“I don't know,” Saxon answered. “He's just a funny proposition.”
“Oh!” the other gasped.
“He IS, just the same, from what all people say of him,” Saxon went on stoutly. “My brother thinks he looks like Abraham Lincoln. Sarah thinks he has whiskers.”
“An' I never think of him with his hair parted,” Mary confessed, daring the thought and shivering with apprehension. “He just couldn't have his hair parted. THAT'D be funny.”
“You know that little, wrinkly Mexican that sells wire puzzles?” Saxon queried. “Well, God somehow always reminds me of him.”
Mary laughed outright.
“Now that IS funny. I never thought of him like that. How do you make it out?”
“Well, just like the little Mexican, he seems to spend his time peddling puzzles. He passes a puzzle out to everybody, and they spend all their lives tryin' to work it out. They all get stuck. I can't work mine out. I don't know where to start. And look at the puzzle he passed Sarah. And she's part of Tom's puzzle, and she only makes his worse. And they all, an' everybody I know—you, too—are part of my puzzle.”