At once, I am ashamed to say, Heaven lost its exalted position in my
eyes. Even before this, it had puzzled me that everybody I knew
should be going there--for so I was always assured; now, connected as
it appeared to be with the origin of Mrs. Fursey, much of its charm
disappeared.

But this was not all. Mrs. Fursey's information had suggested to me a
fresh grief. I stopped not to console myself with the reflection that
my fate had been but the fate of all little boys and girls. With a
child's egoism I seized only upon my own particular case.

"Didn't they want me in Heaven then, either?" I asked. "Weren't they
fond of me up there?"

The misery in my voice must have penetrated even Mrs. Fursey's bosom,
for she answered more sympathetically than usual.

"Oh, they liked you well enough, I daresay. I like you, but I like to
get rid of you sometimes." There could be no doubt as to this last.
Even at the time, I often doubted whether that six o'clock bedtime was
not occasionally half-past five.

The answer comforted me not. It remained clear that I was not wanted
either in Heaven nor upon the earth. God did not want me. He was
glad to get rid of me. My mother did not want me. She could have
done without me. Nobody wanted me. Why was I here?

And then, as the sudden opening and shutting of the door of a dark
room, came into my childish brain the feeling that Something,