ile on his face. The Wicked Man was really such a
preposterous little fellow.

"And then," read the Recording Angel, with a smile that set us all agog,
"one day, when he was a little irascible from over-eating, he--"

"Oh, not _that_," cried the Wicked Man, "nobody knew of _that_.

"It didn't happen," screamed the Wicked Man. "I was bad--I was really bad.
Frequently bad, but there was nothing so silly--so absolutely silly--"

The angel went on reading.

"O God!" cried the Wicked Man. "Don't let them know that! I'll repent!
I'll apologise..."

The Wicked Man on God's hand began to dance and weep. Suddenly shame
overcame him. He made a wild rush to jump off the ball of God's little
finger, but God stopped him by a dexterous turn of the wrist. Then he made
a rush for the gap between hand and thumb, but the thumb closed. And all
the while the angel went on reading--reading. The Wicked Man rushed to and
fro across God's palm, and then suddenly turned about and fled up the
sleeve of God.

I expected God would turn him out, but the mercy of God is infinite.

The Recording Angel paused.

"Eh?" said the Recording Angel.

"Next," said God, and before the Recording Angel could call the name a
hairy creature in filthy rags stood upon God's palm.

VII.

"Has God got Hell up his sleeve then?" said the little man beside me.

"_Is_ there a Hell?" I asked.

"If you notice," he said--he peered between the feet of the great angels--
"there's no particular indication of a Celestial City."

"'Ssh!" said a little woman near us, scowling. "Hear this blessed Saint!"

VIII.

"He was Lord of the Earth, but I was the prophet of the God of Heaven,"
cried the Saint, "and all the people marvelled at the sign. For I, O God,
knew of the glories of thy Paradise. No pain, no hardship, gashing with
knives, splinters thrust under my nails, strips of flesh flayed off, all
for the glory and honour of God."

God smiled.

"And at last I went, I in my rags and sores, smelling of my holy
discomforts----"

Gabriel laughed abruptly.

"And lay outside his gates, as a sign, as a wonder----"

"As a perfect nuisance," said the Recording Angel, and began to read,
heedless of the fact that the saint was still speaking of the gloriously
unpleasant things he had done that Paradise might be his.

And behold, in that book the record of the Saint also was a revelation, a
marvel.

It seemed not ten seconds before the Saint also was rushing