CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.
IN THE GARDEN.
Kathryn stood beside the blossom-laden arbor, culling fragrant tender blossoms from the wealth before her. Beside her, Muriel, little skirt upheld, received them.
"Mother, dear," said the child, at length.
"Yes, honey?"
"Does God make roses?"
"Yes, dearie."
"Who made God?"
Her mother smiled. "He made Himself. God makes everything, dearie."
With troubled brows the little one asked: