“You came from Heaven,” repeated Mrs. Fursey, “and you'll go to Heaven—if you're good.”
“Do all little boys and girls come from Heaven?”
“So they say.” Mrs. Fursey's tone implied that she was stating what might possibly be but a popular fallacy, for which she individually took no responsibility.
“And did you come from Heaven, Mrs. Fursey?” Mrs. Fursey's reply to this was decidedly more emphatic.
“Of course I did. Where do you think I came from?”
At once, I am ashamed to say, Heaven lost its exalted position in my eyes. Even before this, it had puzzled me that everybody I knew should be going there—for so I was always assured; now, connected as it appeared to be with the origin of Mrs. Fursey, much of its charm disappeared.
But this was not all. Mrs. Fursey's information had suggested to me a fresh grief. I stopped not to console myself with the reflection that my fate had been but the fate of all little boys and girls. With a child's egoism I seized only upon my own particular case.
“Didn't they want me in Heaven then, either?” I asked. “Weren't they fond of me up there?”
The misery in my voice must have penetrated even Mrs. Fursey's bosom, for she answered more sympathetically than usual.
“Oh, they liked you well enough, I daresay. I like you, but I like to get rid of you sometimes.” There could be no doubt as to this last. Even at the time, I often doubted whether that six o'clock bedtime was not occasionally half-past five.