“Oh, you may just as well look into it,” said the voice; “that is your part!  You are only my servant, after all.  You have got to work the figures and the details out, and then I shall settle.  Of course you must do your part—­it is not all wasted.  What is wasted is your fretting and fussing!”

“I am anxious,” I said.  “I cannot help being anxious!”

“That is a pity!” said the voice.  “It hurts you and it hurts me too, in a way.  You disturb me, you know; but I cannot interfere with you; I must wait.”

“But are you sure you will do right?” I said.

“I shall do what must be done,” said the voice.  “If you mean, shall I regret my choice, that is possible; at least you may regret it.  But it will not have been a mistake.”

I was puzzled at this, and for a time the voice was silent, so that I had leisure to look about me.  I had walked some way while the dialogue went on, and I was now by the stream, which ran full and cold into a pool beside the bridge, a pool like a clouded jewel.  How beautiful it was! . . .  The old thoughts began again, the old perplexities.  “If he says that,” I said to myself, thinking of an opponent of my plan, “then I must be prepared with an answer—­it is a weak point in my case; perhaps it would be better to write; one says what one thinks; not what one means to say. . . .”

“Still at work?” said the voice.  “You are having a very uncomfortable time over there.  I am sorry for that!  Yet I cannot think why you do not understand!”

“What are you?” I said impatiently.

There was no answer to that.

“You seem very strong and patient!” I said at last.  “I think I rather like you, and I am sure that I trust you; but you irritate me, and you will not explain.  Cannot you help me a little?  You seem to me to be out of sight—­the other side of a wall.  Cannot you break it down or look over?”

“You would not like that,” said the voice; “it would be inconvenient, even painful; it would upset your plans very much.  Tell me—­you like life, do you not?”

“Yes,” I said, “I like life—­at least I am very much interested in it.  I do not feel sure if I like it; I think you know that better than I do.  Tell me, do I like it?”

“Yes,” said the voice; “at least I do.  You have guessed right for once; it matters more what I like than what you like.  You see, I believe in God, for one thing.”

“So do I,” I said eagerly.  “I have reached that point!  I am sure He is there.  It is largely a question of argument, and I have really no doubt, no doubt at all.  There are difficulties of course—­ difficulties about personality and intention; and then there is the origin of evil—­I have thought much about that, and I have arrived at a solution; it is this.  I can explain it best by an analogy. . . .”

There came a laugh from the other side of the wall, not a scornful laugh or an idle laugh, but a laugh kind and compassionate, like a father with a child on his knee; and the voice said, “I have seen Him—­I see Him!  He is here all about us, and He is yonder.  He is not coming to meet us, as you think. . . .  Dear me, how young you must be. . . .  I had forgotten.”