“Keith, I don’t know what to do.”
“Why, dear? Why not simply do as Mrs. Ingraham asks? You would like to, would you not?”
“Once I would have, only too gladly,” and Anna paused a moment, recalling the opposition to which she had yielded so unwillingly in the time past. That outward and forcible opposition was now wholly removed, but another restraint, subtle and subjective, had gradually taken its place, although Anna had until now scarcely recognized the existence of it.
“I am afraid, if I tell you,” she resumed, “you will be shocked and pained. Perhaps I cannot even put it into words, and not overstate what is in my mind; but the trouble is, Keith, I am afraid I don’t believe everything just as I used to.”
Keith Burgess looked at her with his gentle smile.
“Go on,” he said quietly.
“Dear, it is very strange,” and Anna spoke with sudden impetuousness; “but I suppose I have not really a right to speak for missions, for I cannot, any more, believe that God will condemn to everlasting torment all the heathen who do not believe in a means of salvation of which they have never heard.”
“Neither can I.”
“Keith!” Anna felt her breath almost taken away by this sudden admission of what, in the seventies, was rank heresy in strictly orthodox circles. “Why have you never let me suspect such a change in your views? Has this had something to do with your giving up the secretaryship? Was it not then quite all your health? Oh, Keith, if you knew how I have been troubled!”
The tumult of Anna’s surprise broke out in this swift volley of questions, for which she could not wait for answers.