The thought of God, when He was first spoken of to me, seemed as
natural as the thought of my father and mother. That He should be
invisible did not seem strange, for I could not with my eyes see
through the sky, beyond which I supposed he lived. But it was
easy to believe that He could look down and see me, and that He
knew all about me. We were taught very early to say "Thou, God,
seest me"; and it was one of my favorite texts. Heaven seemed
nearer, because somebody I loved was up there looking at me. A
baby is not afraid of its father's eyes.

The first real unhappiness I remember to have felt was when some
one told me, one day, that I did not love God. I insisted, almost
tearfully, that I did; but I was told that if I did truly love
Him I should always be good. I knew I was not that, and the
feeling of sudden orphanage came over me like a bewildering
cloud. Yet I was sure that I loved my father and mother, even
when I was naughty, Was He harder to please than they?

Then I heard of a dreadful dark Somewhere, the horror of which
was that it was away from Him. What if I should wake some
morning, and find myself there? Sometimes I did not dare to go to
sleep for that dread. And the thought was too awful to speak of
to anybody. Baby that I was, I shut my lips in a sort of reckless
despair, and thought that if I could not be good, I might as well
be naughty, and enjoy it. But somehow I could not enjoy it. I
felt sorry and ashamed and degraded whenever I knew that I had
been cross or selfish.

I heard them talk about Jesus as if He were a dead man, one who