than that."

"Dear man! Worse than that, says you? Then he've took the punt beyond
the Gate all by hisself."

"'Tis even worse than that. He's not pleased with the dear Lord's
world."

Skipper Tommy stopped dead and stared me in the eye--but not coldly, you
must know; just in mild wonder, in which, it may be, was mixed some
admiration, as though he, too, deep in his guileless old heart, had had
some doubt which he dared not entertain.

"Ay," said I, loftily, "He've not made flowers enough t' suit _my_
taste."

Skipper Tommy rubbed his nose in a meditative way. "Well," he drawled,
"He haven't made many, true enough. I'm not sayin' He mightn't have made
more. But He've done very well. They's enough--oh, ay, they's enough t'
get along with. For, look you! lad, they's no real _need_ o' any more.
'Twas wonderful kind of Un," he went on, swept away by a flood of good
feeling, as often happened, "t' make even one little flower. Sure, He
didn't _have_ t' do it. He just went an' done it for love of us. Ay," he
repeated, delighting himself with this new thought of his Lord's
goodness, "'twas wonderful kind o' the Lard t' take so much trouble as
that!"

My mother was looking deep into Skipper Tommy's eyes as though she saw
some lovely thing therein.

"Ay," said I, "'twas fair kind; but I'm wishin' He'd been a bit more
free."

My mother smiled at that. Then, "And my son," she said, in the way of
one poking fun, "would have _flour_ grow out of the ground!"

"An' did he say that!" cried Skipper Tommy.

My mother laughed, and Skipper Tommy laughed uproariously, and loudly
slapped his thick thigh; and I felt woefully foolish, and wondered much
what depth of ignorance I had betrayed, but I laughed, too, because
Skipper Tommy laughed so heartily and opened his great mouth so wide;
and we were all very merry for a time. At last, while I wondered, I
thought that, perhaps, flour _did_ grow, after all--though, for the life
of me, I could not tell how--and that my mother and Skipper Tommy knew
it well enough; whereupon I laughed the merrier.

"Come, look you!" then said Skipper Tommy, gently taking the lobe of my
ear between his thick, hard thumb and forefinger. "Don't you go thinkin'
you could make better worlds than the Lard. Why, lad, 'tis but _play_
for _Him_! _He've_ no trouble makin' a world! I'm thinkin' He've made
more than one," he added, his voice changing to a knowing whisper. "'Tis
my own idea, but," now sagely, "I