such a hell, and so it is absurd to go and listen to such things. But I
won't miss my walk with you," she added, "for I will come and meet you
every Wednesday evening, and we'll come home together."

John had risen as she talked, and stood leaning against the mantel, his
face hidden by his hand. Her lightly spoken words had come with such a
shock, the blood leaped back to his heart, and for a moment he could not
speak. He had never allowed himself to realize that her indifference to
doctrine was positive unbelief; had his neglect encouraged her ignorance
to grow into this?

At last he said very gently, "But, dearest, I believe in hell."

"I know it," she answered, no longer carelessly, but still smiling,
"but never mind. I mean, it does not make any difference to me what you
believe. I wouldn't care if you were a Mohammedan, John, if it helped you
to be good and happy. I think that different people have different
religious necessities. One man is born a Roman Catholic, for instance,
though his father and mother may be the sternest Protestants. He cannot
help it; it is his nature! And you"--she looked up at him with infinite
tenderness in her brown eyes,--"you were born a Presbyterian, dear; you
can't help it. Perhaps you need the sternness and the horror of some of
the doctrines as a balance for your gentleness. I never knew any one as
gentle as you, John."

He came and knelt down beside her, holding her face between his hands,
and looking into her clear eyes. "Helen," he said, "I have wanted to
speak to you of this; I have wanted to show you the truth. You will not
say you cannot believe in hell (in justice, Helen) when I prove"--