"Does he use language?"

I gathered from Janet that no one who had enjoyed the privilege of
hearing her father could ever again take interest in the feeble
efforts of herself.

"I am afraid, Janet," I explained, "that if he doesn't give it up--"

"But it's the only way he can talk," interrupted Janet. "He don't
mean anything by it."

I sighed, yet set my face against weakness. "You see, Janet, people
who swear do go there."

But Janet would not believe.

"God send my dear, kind father to hell just because he can't talk like
the gentlefolks! Don't you believe it of Him, Master Paul. He's got
more sense."

I hope I pain no one by quoting Janet's common sense. For that I
should be sorry. I remember her words because so often, when sinking
in sloughs of childish despond, they afforded me firm foothold. More
often than I can tell, when compelled to listen to the sententious
voice of immeasurable Folly glibly explaining the eternal mysteries,
has it comforted me to whisper to myself: "I don't believe it of Him.
He's got more sense."

And about that period I had need of all the comfort I could get. As