When he had gone, Helena Richie sat looking blankly at David. "What on earth shall I do!" she said aloud.
"Did God make Sarah?" David demanded.
"Yes, dear, yes!"
"Did He make me, and the Queen, and my rabbits?"
"Why, of course. Oh, David, you do ask so many questions!"
"Everything has to be made," he ruminated.
She agreed, absently. David put his spoon down, deeply interested.
"Who made God?—another god, higher up?"
"I think," she said, "that I'll send word I have a headache!"
David sighed, and gave up theological research, "Dr. King didn't look at my scar, but I made Theophilus Bell pay me a penny to show it to him. Mrs. Richie, when I am a man, I'm never going to wash behind my ears. I tell Sarah so every morning, I'm going to see my rabbits, now. Good-by."