So now I only pray that there may be a God and a Heaven--or something better." I wrote down this pathetic prayer in its precise wording, at the time, in a record which we kept of the children's sayings, and my reverence for it has grown with the years that have passed over my head since then.

Its untaught grace and simplicity are a child's, but the wisdom and the pathos of it are of all the ages that have come and gone since the race of man has lived, and longed, and hoped, and feared, and doubted.
To go back a year--Susy aged seven.

Several times her mother said to her: "There, there, Susy, you mustn't cry over little things." This furnished Susy a text for thought She had been breaking her heart over what had seemed vast disasters--a broken toy; a picnic cancelled by thunder and lightning and rain; the mouse that was growing tame and friendly in the nursery caught and killed by the cat--and now came this strange revelation.

For some unaccountable reason, these were not vast calamities.

Why?
How is the size of calamities measured?
What is the rule?
There must be some way to tell the great ones from the small ones; what is the law of these proportions?
She examined the problem earnestly and long.