sell a terrier. His aunt sat knitting by the kitchen fire. Little Anthony had come in to warm himself before returning home. It was cold in the railway carriage. There were not enough of them there now to keep it warm. He was sitting with his knee clasped in his hands.
"Why doesn't God stop it?" he demanded suddenly. His knowledge had advanced since the day he had thought Sir William Coomber was God.
"Stop what?" inquired his aunt continuing her knitting.
"The strike. Why doesn't He put everything all right? Can't He?"
"Of course He could," explained his aunt. "If He wanted to."
"Why don't He want to? Doesn't He want everybody to be happy?"
It appeared He did, but there were difficulties in the way. Men and women were wicked—were born wicked: that was the trouble.
"But why were we born wicked?" persisted the child. "Didn't God make us?"
"Of course He made us. God made everything."
"Why didn't He make us good?"
It seemed He had made us good. Adam and Eve were both quite good, in the beginning. If
