"I know all that," Helen began to say gently, but Mrs. Davis could not
check the torrent of her despairing grief.

"He didn't have no chance; an' he didn't ask to be born, neither. God put
him here, an' look at the way He made him live; look at this house; see
the floor, how the water runs down into that corner: it is all sagged an'
leanin'--the whole thing is rotten look at that one window, up against
the wall; not a ray of sunshine ever struck it. An' here's where God's
made us live. Six of us, now the baby's come. Children was the only thing
we was rich in, and we didn't have food enough to put in their mouths, or
decent clothes to cover 'em. Look at the people 'round us here--livin' in
this here row of tenements--drinkin', lying' swearin'. What chance had
Tom? God never give him any, but He could of, if He'd had a mind to. So
I can't love Him, Mrs. Ward,--I can't love Him; Him havin' all the power,
and yet lettin' Tom's soul go down to hell; fer Tom couldn't help it, and
him livin' so. I ain't denyin' religion, ner anything like that--I'm a
Christian woman, an' a member--but I can't love Him, so there's no use
talkin'--I can't love Him."

She turned away and shook the shirt out, hanging it over the back of a
chair in front of the stove, to dry. Helen had followed her, and put her
arm across the thin, bent shoulders, her eyes full of tears, though the
widow's were hard and bright.

"Oh, Mrs. Davis," she cried, "of course you could not love a God who
would never give Tom a chance and then punish him; of course you could
not love Him! But he is not punished by being sent to hell; indeed,
indeed, he is not. If God is good, He could not be so cruel as to give
a soul no chance, and then send it to hell. Don't ever think that Tom,
brave fellow, is there! Oh, believe what I say to you!"