"Mary," I said, "it may sound strange coming from me; I hope you won't take it wrong; but do you know that in reading the New Testament plumb through, I can't remember coming on a place where it says anything about big needs? Please don't think I'm talking too careless for decency; Christ always acted like a kind friend, as I see it. I can't believe it would hurt His feelings a particle to hear me talk this way. He was above worrying about lots of things that bother the churches. He stopped to take a gla.s.s of wine and have a talk with a saloon-keeper. Now, if He was G.o.d, was that a little thing? Does G.o.d do little useless things?

Remember, I thought these things over when I was getting it hard--stop me, if I seem disrespectful."

"No," she said, "it sounds queerly to me, but I know you are not disrespectful, Will. I wouldn't accuse you of being the kind of fool who'd play smart at the expense of the Almighty."

"All right--glad you understand me. Now, listen! Is it great to pull a long face? Is it right to get melancholy about religion, when the head of it always preached happiness? Is it sensible to try and make every one do your way, when you're told the nearer like little children we are, the better we are off? Don't you think you're acting as if you knew better than Christ Himself? You don't imagine that those kids, as they were ten minutes ago, was what He meant when He said, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me'? Seems to me you've altered the text to read: 'Suffer, little children, to come unto Me.' They sure were suffering in them starched white shirts, but I'm betting the words weren't meant to read like that."

"Will," she said earnestly, "I think I've made the common mistake of supposing that I alone cared. Even now, while I feel you have more the real spirit than I, your way of speaking jars on me." She sat down as if she had suddenly grown weak. "I have simply worshiped a certain way of doing things and forgotten the results and the reason for doing anything. Your straight way of putting it makes my life seem ridiculous."

She stopped with a miserable face. I hadn't, in the least, thought to convince her. Most people will hang on to a mistake of that kind harder than they will to a life-preserver. It was like turning a Republican into a Democrat by simply showing him he was wrong--who'd go into politics with that idea?

I stared at her, not believing. "Why, Mary," I said, hedging, as a person will in such circ.u.mstances, "it ain't a cinch that I'm right. I'm only a boy, and of course things appear to me boy fashion."

She cut me short. "To be honest, doubts have troubled me before this.

Your history proves what can be done by extreme--"

Up to this she had spoken quite quietly. Now she put her head in her hands and burst out crying; fortunately we were in a little summer-house where no one could see us.

"Oh, Will!" she sobbed out, "the struggle for nothing at all! All fight, fight, and no peace! I want to be a good woman, I _do_; but what is there for me?"

"Listen to me again," says I, so sorry that I had another attack of reason. "There's this for you--to be a man's wife, and make him twice a man because you are his wife; to raise boys and girls that prove what's right--there's a job for you."

She dried her tears and smiled at me, ashamed of showing so much feeling. "Is this an offer?" she said.

I had to laugh. "You don't squirm out that way, young lady--you were in earnest and you know it. I'll take you, if necessary--by the Prophet Moses, I _will_, if some other feller doesn't show up soon--but I want to speak of a more suitable man."

She looked at me. It was a try at being stern, but, as a result, it was a good deal more scared.

"You can do a great deal with me, Will," she said, "but I'll not hear a word of Arthur Saxton."

"Then," says I, stern in dead earnest, "you are a foolish and an unfair woman. You've believed what was told you; now you _shall_ hear a friend."

"I will _not_," she cried, rising.

I caught her arms and forced her back into the seat. "You will," I answered.

"Very well," she said with quivering lips. "If you wish to take advantage of the friendship I have shown you, and, because you are strong, make me hear what I have forbidden you to say, I'm helpless."

"All the mean things you say sha'n't stop me. Now, as long as you _must_ listen, won't you pay attention?" I asked this in my most wheedling tone. I knew I'd fetch her. She stayed stiff for about ten seconds. Then the dimples came.

"It makes me so angry to think I can't get angry with you, I don't know what to do," she snapped at me. "You have no _business_ to talk to me this way. I shouldn't stand it for a minute. You're nothing but a great bully, bullying a poor little woman, you nice boy! Who ever heard of such an argument? Because you _make_ me listen, I must pay attention!

Well, to show you what a friend I am, I will."

"Thank you, Mary," I said, holding out my hand. "Thank you, dear. You'll not be the worse for hearing the truth. It isn't like you to condemn a man unheard."

"I heard him."

"You heard a lunatic--he told me; why will you call up the worst of him and believe only in that?"

She sprang up, outraged. "I do _not_ call up the worst of him! That is a cowardly excuse--he should be man enough to--"

"Wait: I never meant you did it intentionally. Can't you see how anxious he might be to please you? Can't you believe that if he did something he thought would please you greatly, and you called him a rascal for it, that the worst of him would likely come on top?"

"Yes," she answered slowly; "I can see that--_I_ should, I know."

"Of course you would. Now listen. I have a story for you, that your love of kindness and n.o.bility will find pleasure in."

Again I tried Saxton's method--there isn't a better one, if it's real stuff you have to tell. Very quietly I put it to her as he had to me.

She had less color when I finished.

"If that is the truth, it _was_ n.o.ble," she said, when I finished. The breath fluttered in her throat.

"It _is_ the truth. Arthur isn't too good to lie, by any means, but he has too much pride and courage to lie about a thing like that."

She nodded her head in a.s.sent. I got excited, seeing victory in sight, but had sense enough to keep cool. I knew, even at that early age, there's snags sometimes underneath the smoothest water.

She sighed as if the life of her went out.

"Impulse," she said, "a n.o.ble impulse--and then? an ign.o.ble one, followed with the same determination."

That had too much truth in it. I didn't approve of his drinking himself to death, because he couldn't have what he wanted.

"Yes," I answered smoothly, "and what he needs is a strong excuse to make them all good--he has the strength to do it, you don't deny that?"

"He has strength to do anything--there is the pity of it. There never lived a man who so had his life in his own hand as Arthur Saxton. Would you have me marry him to reform him? Have I no right to feel proud, on my side?"

"No, to the first," says I, "and yes, to the second. He has waked up at last, I feel sure--if only you could believe in him a little more."

"Oh, Will!" she said, "that is what I fear the most. I don't care if he demands much, for so do I, but to be dependent that way--I cannot trust him, till he trusts himself."

"Yes, Mary," I agreed; "but at the same time, he's lots more of a man than the average, handicap him with all his faults!"

She answered me with a curious smile. "Mine is an unhappy nature in one way," she said; "half a loaf is worse than no bread to me. I'd rather never know of Paradise than see and lose it." She threw her hands out suddenly, in a gesture that was little short of agony.

"Oh, I wish sometimes I had no moral sense at all--that I could just live and be happy--and I _can't_ be very good if I wish that--that's a comfort." She turned to me. "Now, Will, I have opened my heart to you as I could not have done to my own mother; will you believe me if I say I cannot talk about this any more?"

"Sure, sweetheart," I said, and kissed her. She let her head stay on my shoulder.

"You are a great comfort, brother Will," she said. The tone made something sting in my eyes. Poor little woman, fighting it out all alone, so unhappy under the smiles, so born to be happy!

I couldn't speak to save me. She looked up at my face. "You are a brave and n.o.ble gentleman, brother mine," she said. I think that would have finished me up--I am such a darned woman at times, but she changed quick as lightning.

"Let's play with the children," she said. "We've had enough of this."

I was glad to scamper around. One thing was certain. I'd hurt Sax none, and proved the value of my plan. Another thing I wanted to know I learned on leaving.

"Mary," I said, as if it was an understood thing between us, "why did Mr. Belknap speak against Saxton?"

She fell into the trap, unthinking. "Because he wished to warn me, of course. And in spite of all you say, Will--forgive me--he is a man of such insight, I cannot believe him altogether wrong."