'Be quiet, or you will disturb those bandages again. I only asked her if she had read the book, and she said no; that was all. But supposing it had not been all, what then? Would it harm her to know of the Bible?'
'It would harm her to lose faith in me.'
'Then why have you not told her yourself?'
'I left her to grow up as the flowers grow,' said old Fog, writhing on his couch. 'Is she not pure and good? Ah, a thousand times more than any church or school could make her!'
'And yet you have taught her to read?'
'I knew not what might happen. I could not expose her defenceless in a hard world. Religion is fancy, but education is like an armor. I cannot tell what may happen.'
'True. You may die, you know; you are an old man.'
The old man turned away his face.
They sailed on, eating once or twice; afternoon came, and then an archipelago closed in around them; the sail was down, and the oars out. Around and through, across and back, in and out they wound, now rowing, now poling, and now and then the sail hoisted to scud across a space of open water. Old Fog's face had grown gray again, and the lines had deepened across his haggard cheek and set mouth; his strength was failing. At last they came to a turn, broad and smooth like a canal. 'Now I will hoist the sail again,' said Waring.
But old Fog shook his head. 'That turn leads directly back into the marsh,' he said, 'Take your oar and push against the sedge in front.'