"Yes," Helen answered, "it is the words. Don't you see how dreadful they
are?"

Alfaretta stood with her plump red hands on her hips, and regarded Mrs.
Ward with interest. "I hadn't ever thought of 'em," she said. "Yes,
ma'am. I suppose they are awful bad," and swinging back and forth on her
heels, her eyes fixed meditatively on the ceiling, she said,--

"'Then swift and dreadful she descends
Down to the fiery coast,
Amongst abominable fiends'--

Yes, that does sound dreadful. Worst of it is, you get used to 'em, and
don't notice 'em much. Why, I've sung that hymn dozens of times in
church, and never thought of the meanin'. And there's Tom Davis: he
drinks most of the time, but he has sung once or twice in the choir
(though he ain't been ever converted yet, and he is really terrible
wicked; don't do nothin' but swear and drink). But I don't suppose he
noticed the words of this hymn,--though I know he sung it,--for he keeps
right on in his sin; and he couldn't, you know, Mrs. Ward, if that hymn
was true to him."

Helen left Alfaretta to reflect upon the hymn, and went back to the
study; but the door was shut, and she heard the scratching of her
husband's pen. She turned away, for she had lived in a minister's
household, and had been brought up to know that nothing must disturb
a man who was writing a sermon. But John had hurriedly opened the door.

"Did you want to speak to me, dearest?" he said, standing at the foot of
the stairs, his pen still between his fingers. "I heard your step."