The old wise people tell us they knew all about it. Our
discovery is a mare's-nest to them; but to us it is very real. The ten
commandments and the old "Thou shalt" we have heard about long enough and
don't care about it; but this new law sets us on fire.
We will deny ourself. Our little wagon that we have made, we give to the
little Kaffers. We keep quiet when they throw sand at us (feeling, oh, so
happy). We conscientiously put the cracked teacup for ourselves at
breakfast, and take the burnt roaster-cake. We save our money, and buy
threepence of tobacco for the Hottentot maid who calls us names. We are
exotically virtuous. At night we are profoundly religious; even the
ticking watch says, "Eternity, eternity! hell, hell, hell!" and the silence
talks of God, and the things that shall be.
Occasionally, also, unpleasantly shrewd questions begin to be asked by some
one, we know not who, who sits somewhere behind our shoulder. We get to
know him better afterward.
Now we carry the questions to the grown-up people, and they give us
answers. We are more or less satisfied for the time. The grown-up people
are very wise, and they say it was kind of God to make hell, and very
loving of Him to send men there; and besides, he couldn't help Himself, and
they are very wise, we think, so we believe them--more or less.
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