children! Their sensitive brains exposed to every cruel breath. No
philosophic doubt permitted to them. No learned disputation on the
relationship between the literal and the allegorical for the easing of
their frenzied fears. How many million tiny white-faced figures
scattered over Christian Europe and America, stared out each night into a
vision of black horror; how many million tiny hands clutched wildly at
the bedclothes. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children,
if they had done their duty, would have prosecuted before now the
Archbishop of Canterbury.

Of course she would go to Hell. As a special kindness some generous
relative had, on Joan's seventh birthday, given her an edition of Dante's
"Inferno," with illustrations by Dore. From it she was able to form some
notion of what her eternity was likely to be. And God all the while up
in His Heaven, surrounded by that glorious band of praise-trumpeting
angels, watching her out of the corner of His eye. Her courage saved her
from despair. Defiance came to her aid. Let Him send her to Hell! She
was not going to pray to Him and make up to Him. He was a wicked God.
Yes, He was: a cruel, wicked God. And one night she told Him so to His
face.

It had been a pretty crowded day, even for so busy a sinner as little
Joan. It was springtime, and they had gone into the country for her
mother's health. Maybe it was the season: a stirring of the human sap,
conducing to that feeling of being "too big for one's boots," as the
saying is. A dangerous period of the year. Indeed, on the principle
that prevention is better than cure, Mrs. Munday had made it a custom
during April and May to administer to Joan a cooling mixture; but on this
occasion had unfortunately come away without it. Joan, dressed for use
rather than show, and without either shoes or stockings, had stolen