again, little Davie, who had been looking very solemn and thoughtful
for some time, said, not in a questioning, but in a concluding tone--

"God didn't make the fees, Kirsty!"

"Oh yes, Davie! God made everything. God did make the fleas," said
Kirsty.

Davie was silent for a while. Then he opened his mouth and spake like
a discontented prophet of old:

"Why doesn't he give them something else to eat, then?"

"You must ask himself that," said Kirsty, with a wisdom I have since
learned to comprehend, though I remember it shocked me a little at the
time.

All this set me thinking. Before the dressing of little Davie was
over, I had _my_ question to put to Kirsty. It was, in fact, the same
question, only with a more important object in the eye of it.

"_Then_ I suppose God made Mrs. Mitchell, as well as you and the rest
of us, Kirsty?" I said.

"Certainly, Ranald," returned Kirsty.

"Well, I wish he hadn't," was my remark, in which I only imitated my
baby brother, who was always much cleverer than I.

"Oh! she's not a bad sort," said Kirsty; "though I must say, if I was