“How can they keep a falling? If Adam fell out of the apple-tree, wouldn't he have struck on the ground, and got up agin? And if anybody falls, why, why, mustn't they come to the bottom sometime? If there is something to fall off of, mustn't there be something to hit against? And say”—
Here the boy's eyes looked dreamier than they had looked, and further off.
“Was I made out of dirt, uncle Josiah?”
“Yes: we are all made out of dust.”
“And did God breathe our souls into us? Was it His own self, His own life, that was breathed into us?”
“Yes,” says Josiah, in a more fagged voice than he had used durin' the intervue, and more hopelesser.
“Wall, if God is in us, how can He lose us again? Wouldn't it be a losing His own self? And how could God lose Himself? And what did He find us for, in the first place, if He wus going to lose us again?”
Here Josiah got right up in the Democrat, and lifted the boy, and sot him over on the seat with me, and took the lines out of Ury's hands, and drove the old mair at a rate that I told him wus shameful on Sunday, for a perfessor.