“I could say that,” said Ann, “because I know you, and know you don’t want people starved.  But if I’d never heard anything about you except that I was to be starved in your name—­”

“I should think even so you might question.  Didn’t it ever occur to you that God had more to do with your Something Somewhere than He did with things done in His name in Centralia?”

“Why, Katie, how strange you should think of that.  For I thought of it—­but I supposed it was the most wicked thought of all.”

“How strange it would be,” said Katie, “if He had more to do with the ‘call’ than with the God-fearing things you were called from.”

For an instant Ann’s face lighted up.  But it hardened.  “Well, if He had,” she said, “it seems He might have stood by me a little better after I was ‘called.’”

Katie had no reply for that, so she turned to her uncle, the Bishop.

“Well there’s one place where you’re wrong, Ann; and that is that religion is incompatible with the love of dogs.  You know my uncle—­my mother’s brother—­is a bishop.  I don’t know just how well uncle understands God, but if he understands Him as well as he does dogs then he must be well fitted for his office.  I don’t think in his heart uncle would have any respect for any person—­no matter how religious—­or even how much they subscribed—­who wouldn’t appreciate the tragedy of losing one’s dog.  Uncle has a splendid dog—­a Great Dane; they’re real chums.  He often reads his sermons to Caesar.  He says Caesar can stay awake under them longer than some of the congregation.  I once shocked, but I think secretly delighted uncle, by saying that he rendered to Caesar the things that were Caesar’s and to God what Caesar left.  Well, one dreadful day someone stole Caesar.  They took him out of town, but Caesar got away and made a return that has gone down into dog history.  Poor uncle had been all broken up about it for three days.  He was to preach that morning.  My heart ached for him as he stood there at his study window looking down the street when it was time to go.  I knew what he was hoping for—­the way you go on hoping against hope when your dog’s lost.  And then after uncle had gone, and just as I was ready to start myself, I heard the great deep bark of mighty Caesar!  You may know I was wild about it—­and crazy to get the news to uncle.  I hurried over to church, but service had begun.  But because I was bursting to tell it, and because I appreciated something of what it would mean to talk about the goodness of God when you weren’t feeling that way, I wrote a little note and sent it up.  I suppose the people who saw it passed into the chancel in dignified fashion thought it was something of ecclesiastical weight.  What it said was, ‘Hallelujah—­he’s back—­safe and sound.  K—.’