Mrs. Ward does not think quite as we do, yet," he said gently; "you know
she has not been a Presbyterian as long as we have."

He rose as he spoke, and came and stood by Helen's chair, and then walked
at her side into the parlor.

Mrs. Grier had followed them, and heard Helen say in a low voice, "I
would rather not go to church this afternoon, dearest. May I wait for you
here?"

"Well," she broke in, "I shouldn't suppose you would care to go, so long
as it's just about the ways and means of sending the gospel to the
heathen, and you think they're all going right to heaven, any way."

"I do not know where they are going, Mrs. Grier," Helen said wearily;
"for all I know, there is no heaven, either. I only know that God--if
there is a God who has any personal care for us--could not be so wicked
and cruel as to punish people for what they could not help."

"Good land!" cried Mrs. Grier, really frightened at such words, and
looking about as though she expected a judgment as immediate as the bears
which devoured the scoffing children.

"If you would rather not go," John answered, "if you are tired, wait for
me here. I am sure Mrs. Grier will let you lie down and rest until it is
time to start for home?"

"Oh, of course," responded Mrs. Grier, foreseeing a chance for further
investigation, for she, too, was to be at home.

But Helen did not invite her to come into the spare room, when she went
to lie down, after John's departure for church. She wanted to be alone.
She had much to think of, much to reconcile and explain, to protect
herself from the unhappiness which John's sermon might have caused her.
She had had an unmistakable shock of pain and distress as she realized
her husband's belief, and to feel even that seemed unloving and disloyal.
To Helen's mind, if she disapproved of her husband's opinions on what to
her was an unimportant subject, her first duty was to banish the thought,
and forget that she had ever had it. She sat now by the open window,
looking out over the bright garden to the distant peaceful hills, and by
degrees the pain of it began to fade from her mind, in thoughts of John
himself, his goodness, and their love. Yes, they loved one another,--that
was enough.

"What does it matter what his belief is?" she said. "I love him!"

So, by and by, the content of mere existence unfolded in her heart, and
John's belief was no more to her than a dress of the mind; his character
was unchanged. There was