ty to Children,
if they had done their duty, would have prosecuted before now the
Archbishop of Canterbury.

Of course she would go to Hell. As a special kindness some generous
relative had, on Joan's seventh birthday, given her an edition of Dante's
"Inferno," with illustrations by Dore. From it she was able to form some
notion of what her eternity was likely to be. And God all the while up
in His Heaven, surrounded by that glorious band of praise-trumpeting
angels, watching her out of the corner of His eye. Her courage saved her
from despair. Defiance came to her aid. Let Him send her to Hell! She
was not going to pray to Him and make up to Him. He was a wicked God.
Yes, He was: a cruel, wicked God. And one night she told Him so to His
face.

It had been a pretty crowded day, even for so busy a sinner as little
Joan. It was springtime, and they had gone into the country for her
mother's health. Maybe it was the season: a stirring of the human sap,
conducing to that feeling of being "too big for one's boots," as the
saying is. A dangerous period of the year. Indeed, on the principle
that prevention is better than cure, Mrs. Munday had made it a custom
during April and May to administer to Joan a cooling mixture; but on this
occasion had unfortunately come away without it. Joan, dressed for use
rather than show, and without either shoes or stockings, had stolen
stealthily downstairs: something seemed to be calling to her.
Silently--"like a thief in the night," to adopt Mrs. Munday's
metaphor--had slipped the heavy bolts; had joined the thousand creatures
of the wood--had danced and leapt and shouted; had behaved, in short,
more as if she had been a Pagan nymph than a happy English child. She
had regained the house unnoticed, as she thought, the Devil, no doubt,
assisting her; and had hidden her wet clothes in the bottom of a mighty
chest. Deceitfulness in her heart, she had greeted Mrs. Munday in sleepy
tones from beneath the sheets; and before breakfast, assailed by
suspicious questions, had told a deliberate lie. Later in the morning,
during an argument with an active young pig who was willing enough to
play at Red Riding Hood so far as eating things out of a basket was
concerned, but who would not wear a night-cap, she had used a wicked
word. In the afternoon she "might have killed" the farmer's only son and
heir. They had had a row. In one of those sad lapses from the higher
Christian standards