But Sylvie was not satisfied yet. In a hushed, solemn tone, with bowed head and clasped hands, she put her final question. "Does God love hares?"
"Yes!" I said. "I'm sure He does! He loves every living thing. Even sinful men. How much more the animals, that cannot sin!"
"I don't know what 'sin' means," said Sylvie. And I didn't try to explain it.
"Come, my child," I said, trying to lead her away. "Wish good-bye to the poor hare, and come and look for blackberries."
"Good-bye, poor hare!" Sylvie obediently repeated, looking over her shoulder at it as we turned away. And then, all in a moment, her self-command gave way. Pulling her hand out of mine, she ran back to where the dead hare was lying, and flung herself down at its side in such an agony of grief as I could hardly have believed possible in so young a child.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!" she moaned, over and over again. "And God meant your life to be so beautiful!"
Sometimes, but always keeping her face hidden on the ground, she would reach out one
