“Do you, darling? And why?”
“Oh, I dunno. He’s always nice and pleased looking. An’ I think He likes me. But, Mother, you didn’t answer me about that word ‘fore-ornained.’”
“‘Fore-ordained?’ Well, let me see—what does it say? ‘The decrees of God are His eternal purpose, according to the counsel of His will, whereby for His own glory He hath fore-ordained whatsoever comes to pass.’ Well, that just means, Paul, that God has arranged beforehand everything that happens in the world.”
“Everything? To everybody? Every single thing?”
“Yes. Yes, dear. Now, we’ll go on.”
“But everything, Mother? To Blazes too?” insisted the boy, his eye upon the nondescript mongrel stretched at ease on the grass in the shade of the verandah.
“To Blazes? Why—I suppose so—yes.”
“Are you sure, Mother, about Blazes?” said the boy, with a child’s passion for absolutism.
“Yes, of course—but now let us get on.” The mother, from long experience, feared a pitfall.
“God didn’t arrange about Blazes’ ear. It was the big wildcat did that when Blazes sailed into ’im. Daddy said so,” said the boy triumphantly marshalling his secondary causes in the great line of causation. “I guess God doesn’t arrange for dogs, does He, Mother?”