," he would repeat, "crucify the dear Lord again!"

It would be very hard, then, to fall asleep....

So did the crucifix on the wall work within the child's heart--so did
the shadows of the wide, still house impress him, so did the curate's
voice and gentle teaching, so did the gloom, the stained windows, the
lofty arches, the lights and low, sweet music of the Church of the
Lifted Cross favour the subtle change--that he was now moved to pain
and sickening disgust by rags and pinched faces and discord and dirt
and feverish haste and all manner of harshness and unloveliness,
conceiving them poignant as sin....

Mother and son were in the park. It was evening--dusk: a grateful balm
abroad in the air. Men and women, returning from church, idled through
the spring night.

"But, dear," said his mother, while she patted his hand, "you mustn't
_hate_ the wicked!"

He looked up in wonder.

"Oh, my! no," she pursued. "Poor things! They're not so bad--when you
know them. Some is real kind."

"I could not _love_ them!"

"Why not?"

"I _could_ not!"

So positive, this--the suggestion so scouted--that she took thought for
her own fate.

"Would you love me?" she asked.

"Oh, mother!" he laughed.

"What would you do," she gravely continued, "if I was--a wicked woman?"

He laughed again.

"What would you do," she insisted, "if somebody told you I was bad?"

"Mother," he answered, not yet affected by her earnestness, "you could
not be!"

She put her hands on his shoulders. "What would you do?" she repeated.

"Don't!" he pleaded, disquieted.

Again the question--low, intense, demanding answer. He trembled. She
was not in play. A sinful woman? For a moment he conceived the
possibility--vaguely: in a mere flash of feeling.

"What would you do?"

"I don't know!"

She sighed.

"I think," he whispered, "that I'd--die!"

That night, when the moonlight had climbed to the crucifix on the wall,
the boy got out of bed. For a long time he stood in the beam of soft
light--staring at the tortured Figure.

"I think I'd better do it!" he determined.

He knelt--lifted his clasped hands--began his childish appeal.

"Dear Jesus," he prayed, "my mother says that I must not hate the
wicked. You heard her, didn't you, dear Jesus? It was in the park,
to-night, after church--at the bench near the lilac bush. You _must_
have heard her.... Mother says the wicked are kind, and not so bad. I
would like very