ll, did you see what he did, mum? Walked straight into my clean
kitchen, without even wiping his boots, the--" And before my mother
could stop her, Janet had relieved her feelings by calling him it--or
rather them--again, without any idea that she had done aught else than
express in fitting phraseology a natural human emotion.

We were good friends, Janet and I, and therefore it was that I
personally undertook her reformation. It was not an occasion for mincing
one's words. The stake at issue was, I felt, too important. I told
her bluntly that if she persisted in using such language she would
inevitably go to hell.

"Then where's my father going?" demanded Janet.

"Does he use language?"

I gathered from Janet that no one who had enjoyed the privilege of
hearing her father could ever again take interest in the feeble efforts
of herself.

"I am afraid, Janet," I explained, "that if he doesn't give it up--"

"But it's the only way he can talk," interrupted Janet. "He don't mean
anything by it."

I sighed, yet set my face against weakness. "You see, Janet, people who
swear do go there."

But Janet would not believe.

"God send my dear, kind father to hell just because he can't talk like
the gentlefolks! Don't you believe it of Him, Master Paul. He's got more
sense."

I hope I pain no one by quoting Janet's common sense. For that I should
be sorry. I remember her words because so often, when sinking in sloughs
of childish despond, they afforded me firm foothold. More often than
I can tell, when compelled to listen to the sententious voice of
immeasurable Folly glibly explaining the eternal mysteries, has it
comforted me to whisper to myself: "I don't believe it of Him. He's got
more sense."

And about that period I had need of all the comfort I could get. As
we descend the road of life, the journey, demanding so much of our
attention, becomes of more importance than the journey's end; but to the
child, standing at the valley's gate, the terminating hills are
clearly visible. What lies beyond them is his constant wonder. I never
questioned my parents directly on the subject, shrinking as so strangely
we all do, both young and old, from discussion of the very matters
of most moment to us; and they, on their part, not guessing my need,
contented themselves with the vague generalities with which we seek
to hide even from ourselves the poverty of our beliefs. But there were
foolish voices about me less reticent; w