"Just a minute, Nance!" He clutched more tightly the hand he had been
holding. "I see now! I must be remembering something I knew--something
that brought me down sick. If a man doesn't believe God was capable of
becoming so enraged with Adam that only the bloody death of his own son
would appease his anger toward _us_, he sends that man where--where the
worm doeth something or other--what is it? Oh, well!--of course, it's of
no importance--only it came to me it was something I ought to remember if
grandad should ask me about it. What a quaint belief it must have been."

"Oh, I must go!--let me, now."

"Don't you find it interesting, Nance, rummaging among these musty old
religions of a dead past--though I admit that this one is less pleasant to
study than most of the others. This god seems to lack the majesty and
beauty of the Greek and the integrity of the Norse gods. In fact, he was
too crude to be funny--by the way, what is it I seem to recall, about
eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the son?--'unless ye eat the
flesh of the son--'"

She drew her hand from his now and arose in some dismay. He lay back upon
his pillow, smiling.

"Not very agreeable, is it, Nance? Well, come again, and I'll tell you
about some of the pleasanter old faiths next time--I remember now that
they interested me a lot before I was sick."

"You're sure I shouldn't send Clytie or some one?" She looked down at him
anxiously, putting her hand on his forehead. He put one of his own lightly
over hers.