afternoon he was sitting up
against four hot-water bottles, letting her call him "Brother Billy."
That sounds scandalous, but listening from where I lay on the sofa in
the front room I could tell that they were having a duel of spirits,
and that she was taking liberties with William's theology that must
have made his guardian angel pale. He wore his red flannel nightshirt,
had a quilt folded around his legs and one of Benson's Commentaries
open upon his knees. His hair was bristling in fine style, and his
long beard lay like a stole upon his breast. His hands were resting on
the arms of his chair, and he was regarding Sal, who sat in the
opposite corner openly dipping snuff, with a kind of fascinated
disapproval.

"The kind of faith you have in God don't do Him jestice," she was
saying. "It's sorter infernal--it's so mean and partial. Your God
ain't nothing but a Paradise capitalist and aristocrat--the sort of one
that fixes up a flower garden for Him and jest His saints to set in the
middle of and sing and harp on their harps, while a right smart chance
of the best folks sneak and shuffle around in the outer darkness
forever because, like me, they had no chance to be good, and so went
wrong before they knowed where they were going. Sometimes these last
years since I had my vision of Him, I've wanted to tell you preachers
that the little ornamental divinity that you shout about ain't nothing
but a figger of speech took from the heathens and made over by heathen
Christians."

"Stop!" said William, lifting one of his thin, white hands and waving
it imperatively at her. "You must not speak irreverently. I know you
don't mean it, but----"

"Jest answer me, this, sir--is your leg hurtin' any worse?"

"No," replied William, mollified.

"Not a mite?" she insisted.

"No, I am much easier of the pain."

"Well, then, I'm goin' to say this much more even if it strangles you:
the word God stands for something in the hearts of men and women
bigger'n a Paradise gardener with a taste for music!"

"You don't put it fair, Sister Prout," said William, aggrieved.

"I can't put it in as fine language as Saint John, if that's what you
mean."

"What is the nature of God as you see Him?"

We are made very queer by the soul, not nearly so much alike as we are
in other respects. I saw now the same light pass over Sal's face that
I had often seen in William's, yet they could not agree about their one
Heavenly Father.

"