ou don't know half the time what you're talkin'
about. What's to become of us all? That's what I want to know."

The Professor sat down. The hired man stood at the door. Milford leaned
back in his chair. The old woman looked at the learned man and repeated
her question. He began to say something about philosophy, and she broke
in with a contemptuous snort and the cat's foot. She did not want
philosophy; she wanted the truth. The Professor attempted to persuade
her that philosophy was the truth, and she fluttered like a hen. It was
nothing of the sort; it was ignorance put in big words. What she wanted
was the truth.

"But if you won't listen I can't give it to you," said the Professor.
"You cut me off at the beginning. Now, you say that what you want is the
truth. You demand an answer to your question of what is to become of us
all, after this life. You want me to answer it in a word, when the books
that have been written on the subject would sink the biggest ship
afloat."

"Yes, and you don't know anythin' about it. What I want to know is, can
we come back? Answer me that."

"Madam, in my opinion----"

"I don't give a snap for your opinion. Come on, Bob Mitchell, if you're
goin' with me." She bustled out of the room, leaving the Professor with
his finger-tips pressed together and his head erect. "As odd a fish as
was ever hooked," said he. "She must be afraid that she is going to
die."

"It's on her mind all the time," said Milford. "She wants to believe
something, she doesn't know exactly what."

"The pitiable case of one beyond the reach of philosophy. But in her
struggling to land herself somewhere she keeps her interest in herself
keenly alive. There is always some sort of hope as long as we are
interested in ourselves. Trite, I admit that it is trite, but it is a
fact that we should always bear in mind, endeavoring constantly to keep
alive an interest in self so that we may not fail in the obligations
which we owe to others. But well may the old woman ask what is to become
of us all. I wash my hands of the spiritual part," he said, going
through the motion of washing; "I can shift the responsibilities here,
or at least feel that I can, but--bodily, bodily, what's to become of us
bodily?"

"When such riddles are asked of me, I'm always ready to give them up,"
said Milford. "I'm not asking myself any questions."

"Ha! you don't need to," the Professor declared. "You bristle yourself
against the world, an