strong,"
he blurted. "Please don't. I--I don't want you to. You--you make
me feel bad."

"Do I? I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say anything to hurt your
feelings. I beg your pardon."

"No, you don't. I--I mean you hadn't ought to. You don't hurt my
feelin's; I mean you make me feel bad--wicked--cussed mean--all
that and some more. I know I ought to let you have this house.
Any common, decent man with common decent feelin's and sense would
let you have it. But, you see, I ain't that kind. I--I'm selfish
and--and wicked and--" He waved a big hand in desperation.

She laughed. "Nonsense!" she exclaimed. "Besides, it isn't so
desperate as all that. You certainly are not obliged to rent the
house unless you want to."

"But I do want to; that is, I don't, but I know I'd ought to want
to. And if I was goin' to let anybody have it I'd rather 'twould
be you--honest, I would. And it's the right thing for me to do, I
know that. That's what bothers me; the trouble's with ME. I don't
want to do the right thing." He broke off, seemed to reflect and
then asked suddenly:

"Ma'am, do you want to go to heaven when you die?"

The lady was naturally somewhat surprised at the question. "Why,
yes," she replied, "I-- Why, of course I do."

"There, that's it! Any decent, sensible person would. But I don't."

Barbara, startled into forgetting that children should be seen and
not heard, uttered a shocked "Oh!"

Jed waved his hand. "You see," he said, "even that child's morals
are upset by me. I know I ought to want to go to heaven. But when
I see the crowd that KNOW they're goin' there, are sartin of it,
the ones from this town, a good many of 'em anyhow; when I hear how
they talk in prayer-meetin' and then see how they act outside of
it, I-- Well," with a deep sigh, "I want to go where they ain't,
that's all." He paused, and then drawled solemnly, but with a
suspicion of the twinkle in his eye: "The general opinion seems to
be that that's where I'll go, so's I don't know's I need to worry."

Mrs. Armstrong made no comment on this confession. He did not seem
to expect any.

"Ma'am," he continued, "you see what I mean. The trouble's with
me, I ain't made right. I ought to let that house; Sam Hunniwell
told me so this mornin'. But I--I don't want to. Nothin' personal
to you, you understand; but . . . Eh? Who's that?"

A step sounded on the walk outside and voices were heard. Jed
turned to the do