reflected in the mirror on the dresser, only faintly illuminated their faces, seeming to draw them upward from an immense void.
"Finch," asked Wake, "do you believe in God?"
A tremor ran through Finch's body at the question. He peered at the child, trying to make out whether he had divined any of his imaginings.
"I suppose I do," he answered. Then he asked, almost timidly, "Do you?"
"Yes. But what I'm wondering is—what kind of face has He? Has He a real face, Finch, or—just something flat and white where His face ought to be? That's what I think sometimes." Wake's voice had fallen to a whisper, and he pulled nervously at the coverlet.
Finch clutched his knees, staring at the candle that was now spluttering, almost out.
"His face is always changing," he said. "That's why you can't see it. Don't you ever try to see it, Wake; you're too young. You're not strong enough. You'd go nutty."
"Have you seen it, Finch?" This conversation was like a ghost story to Wake, frightening, yet exhilarating. "Do tell me what you've seen."
"Shut up," shouted Finch, springing up from the bed. "Go to sleep. I'm going." He lunged toward the door, but the candle had gone out and he had to grope his way.
"Finch, Finch, don't leave me," Wake was wailing.
But Finch did not stop till he reached his own bed, and threw himself face downward upon it. There he lay until he heard the others coming up the stairs.
