"Yes," was his reply.
"Who made it?"
"God."
"Well, wouldn't it be nice to pray a little?" I asked.
"Oh," with a tone of aversion, "I don't want to pray!"
"You don't like to talk to God?"
"Huh!" scornfully. "I can't talk to God, He's up in heaven."
"No, God is in your heart." At that he rose to his knees and said, with an incredulous look on his face:
"Well, I guess I can't jump into my mouth!" This made me feel that he was born a little pagan, but at the same time it gave me one clue to the difficulty. He made a difference between talking and praying. That he liked to talk, I knew, but now it appeared that, to his mind, offering prayers to some one so far away was quite a different thing. Then I asked him if he thought I loved him.
"Yes, I know you love me," he said, putting his arms about my neck, and giving me a squeeze.