"Maybe!" sniffed Grandma.

"And if you believe it," Doug rushed on, "why did you let us run the
preacher out?"

"O, the preacher! Pooh! He's nothing but a blankety blank sissy like the
rest of the sky pilots!"

"But can't I believe like you do, Grandma? I'm just the unhappiest guy in
the world!"

"You mean," the old lady spoke deliberately, "that this is the first
funeral you've seen that's set you to thinking and the fear of death is
on you for the first time. I hope it'll do you good, Doug. You're an
awful rough little devil."

Douglas swallowed audibly. "Grandma," he cried passionately, "how can I
get to believe what you do?"

Grandma looked thoughtfully from her plump milch cow to the lantern, and
from the lantern to Douglas. "Doug, I don't think you can, living among
the folks you do. To have my kind of faith, you've got to have a mother
that breeds it in you from the time you're a baby."

Douglas, his face looking absurdly young above his broad shoulders, said
despairingly, "I don't believe you want to help me."

"Well," Grandma was still deliberate, "I don't believe a wild young devil
like you really wants help. You're just scared."