So the Book remained in John McIntyre's shanty, and often, when some other story was finished, the boy would bring it out. The books of Esther and Daniel, the tales of Samson and Gideon, and the wonderful stories of the Savior Himself, all had to be gone over again and again. And one night John McIntyre read of love's great sacrifice, when the skies grew dark and the earth trembled with the agony of Calvary.
Tim lay on the floor, staring up at the reader. John McIntyre's sorrowful voice had brought home to him some inkling of the stupendousness of that tragedy.
"What did they kill Him for?" he demanded sharply. "He never did anything bad, did He?"
"No." John McIntyre's voice was almost inaudible.
"Couldn't He have stopped them if He had wanted to?"
"Yes," hesitatingly.
"Why didn't He, then?" scornfully.
Why? There had been a day when John McIntyre could have given a ready answer. He would have told the boy it was God's love and man's great need that held the Savior there; but he had long ceased to believe in that love, and he was silent.
Tim waited a while, and then tried another question. "Where is Jesus now? Is He in Heaven?"
"I suppose so—yes."