"Don't prove," she interrupted him, putting her hand softly across his
lips, "don't let us argue. Oh, a theological argument seems to me
sacrilege, and dogma can never be an antidote for doubt, John. I must
believe what my own soul asserts, or I am untrue to myself. I must begin
with that truth, even if it keeps me on the outskirts of the great Truth.
Don't you think so, dear? And I do not believe in hell. Now that is
final, John."

She smiled brightly into his troubled face, and, seeing his anxiety,
hastened to save him further pain in the future. "Do not let us ever
discuss these things. After all, doctrine is of so little importance, and
argument never can result in conviction to either of us, for belief is a
matter of temperament, and I do so dislike it. It really distresses me,
John."

"But, dearest," he said, "to deliberately turn away from the search for
truth is spiritual suicide."

"Oh, you misunderstand me," she replied quickly. "Of course one's soul
always seeks for truth, but to argue, to discuss details, which after all
are of no possible importance, no more part of the eternal verities than
a man's--buttons are of his character! Now, remember," with smiling
severity, "never again!" She laid her head down on his shoulder. "We are
so happy, John, so happy; why should we disturb the peace of life? Never
mind what we think on such matters; we have each other, dear!"

He was silenced; with her clinging arm about him, and her tender eyes
looking into his, he could not argue; he was the lover, not the preacher.

He kissed her between her level brows; it was easy to forget his duty!