"I have never seen death before," she said, in hushed tones—"except in birds and flowers and animals—and I have cried over the poor things for sorrow that they should be taken away out of this beautiful world. But with Dad it is different. He was afraid—afraid of suffering and weakness—and he was taken so quickly that he could hardly have felt anything—so that his fears were all useless. And I can hardly believe he is dead—actually dead—can you? But of course you do not believe in death at all—the religion you teach is one of eternal life—eternal life and happiness."
Mr. Medwin's lips moved—he murmured something about "living again in the Lord."
Innocent did not hear,—she was absorbed in her own mental problem and anxious to put it before him.
"Listen!" she said—"When Priscilla told me Dad was really dead—that he would never get off the bed where he lay so cold and white and peaceful,—that he would never speak to me again, I said she was wrong—that it could not be. I told her he would wake presently and laugh at us all for being so foolish as to think him dead. Even Hero, our mastiff, does not believe it, for he has stayed all morning by the bedside and no one dare touch him to take him away. And just now Priscilla has been with me, crying very much—and she says I must not grieve,—because Dad is gone to a better world. Then surely he must be alive if he is able to go anywhere, must he not? I asked her what she knew about this better world, and she cried again and said indeed she knew nothing except what she had been taught in her Catechism. I have read the Catechism and it seems to me very stupid and unnatural—perhaps because I do not understand it. Can you tell me about this better world?"
Mr. Medwin's lips moved again. He cleared his throat.
"I'm afraid," he observed—"I'm very much afraid, my poor child, that you have been brought up in a sad state of ignorance."
Innocent did not like being called a "poor child"—and she gave a little gesture of annoyance.
"Please do not pity me," she said, with a touch of hauteur—"I do not wish that! I know it is difficult for me to explain things to you as I see them, because I have never been taught religion from a Church. I have read about the Virgin and Christ and the Saints and all those pretty legends in the books that belonged to the Sieur Amadis—but he lived three hundred years ago and he was a Roman Catholic, as all those French noblemen were at that time."
Mr. Medwin stared at her in blank bewilderment. Who was the Sieur
Amadis? She went on, heedless of his perplexity.
"Dad believed in a God who governed all things rightly,—I have heard him say that God managed the farm and made it what it is. But he never spoke much about it—and he hated the Church—"