We all wished that—too late. Our curiosity had led us into some Holy of Holies, not to be profaned by human eyes, and this was our punishment.
“I’ve always had a feeling right along,” wept Sara, “that it wasn’t RIGHT to buy—or LOOK AT—God’s picture.”
As we stood there wretchedly we heard flying feet below and a blithe voice calling,
“Where are you, children?”
The Story Girl had returned! At any other moment we would have rushed to meet her in wild joy. But now we were too crushed and miserable to move.
“Whatever is the matter with you all?” demanded the Story Girl, appearing at the top of the stairs. “What is Sara crying about? What have you got there?”
“A picture of God,” said Cecily with a sob in her voice, “and oh, it is so dreadful and ugly. Look!”
The Story Girl looked. An expression of scorn came over her face.
“Surely you don’t believe God looks like that,” she said impatiently, while her fine eyes flashed. “He doesn’t—He couldn’t. He is wonderful and beautiful. I’m surprised at you. THAT is nothing but the picture of a cross old man.”
Hope sprang up in our hearts, although we were not wholly convinced.