"It is Sunday," answered the child. "Mamma would not wish me to play with them."
"I do not wish to make a Sabbath-breaker of you," answered the tutor, "nor are your sister and I going to do other than build Babel with them—which is permissible of a Sunday."
The little boy slid off his seat, went to his cupboard, and speedily produced the required box, which he gave to Mr. Saltren.
The tutor drew forth the lid. The bricks were all in place compacted in perfect order.
Then he said, with half-sneer, half-laugh, "There are no gaps between them. The whole assemblage firm as it were one block. Not a breakage anywhere, not room for a breakage."
"No," said Arminell, "of course not. They all fit exactly because they are all cubes. The bricks," she laughed, "have no long necks like the giraffe, or legs or horns, or proboscis, or broad-brimmed hats, liable to be broken. Of course they fit together."
"If you shake the ark—the least concussion produces a breakage, one or two beasts suffer. You may toss the box of bricks about; and nothing is hurt. Why?"
Arminell was impatient. "Of course the reason is plain."
"The reason is plain. The bricks are all equal. If it were so in the world of men, there would be no jars, no fractures, no abrasions, but concord, compactness, peace."
Arminell said nothing. She closed her eyes and sat looking at the bricks, then at the animals Giles had arranged.
The tutor said no more, but his eyes, bright and eager, were on the girl's face.
Presently Arminell had gathered her thoughts together sufficiently to speak.
"That, then, is the solution you offer to my problem.
