sinners go to the bad place, even if they're belonging to them. He 'lows
I'd oughtn't to be sorry."

"I am sure you have a right to be sorry Tom is dead," Helen said,--the
woman's composure made her calm, too,--"but I do not believe he is in any
place now that need make you sorry. I do not believe what Elder Dean said
about--hell."

Mrs. Davis looked at her, a faint surprise dawning in her tired eyes, and
shook her head. "Oh, I'm not sayin' that he ain't right. I'm not sayin'
Tom ain't in the bad place, ner that it ain't justice. I'm a Christian
woman. I was convicted and converted when I wasn't but twelve years old,
and I know my religion. Tom--he wasn't no Christian, he didn't ever
experience a change of heart: it was always like as if he was just going
to be converted, when he wasn't in drink; fer he was good in his heart,
Tom was. But he wasn't no Christian, an' I'm not sayin' he isn't lost.
I'm only sayin',"--this with a sudden passion, and knotting her tremulous
hands hard together,--"I'm only sayin' I can't love God no more! Him
havin' all the power--and then look at Tom an' me"--

Helen tried to speak, but Mrs. Davis would not listen. "No," she cried,
"yer the preacher's wife, but I must say it. He never give Tom a chance,
an' how am I goin' to love Him now? Tom,"--she pointed a shaking finger
at the coffin in the next room,--"born, as you might say, drinkin'. His
father died in a drunken fit, and his mother give it to her baby with her
milk. Then, what schoolin' did he get? Nothin', 'less it was his mother
lickin' him. Tom's often told me that. He hadn't no trade learned,
neither,--just rafted with men as bad as him. Is it any wonder he wasn't
converted?"