“Are you?” he asked, turning to her wonderingly.
“Yes; religious people are so glum,” she explained. “I never saw one of them laugh.”
“There are some that way,” said Joe. “They seem to be afraid they’ll go to hell if they let the Almighty hear them laugh. Mother used to be that way when she first got her religion, but she’s outgrowing it now.”
“The preachers used to scare me to death,” she declared. “If I could hear some comfortable religion I might take up with it, but it seems to me that everybody’s so sad after they get it. I don’t know why.”
Joe put down the pails again. Early as the day was, it was hot, and he was sweating. He pushed his hat back from his forehead. It was like lifting a shadow from his serious young face. She smiled.
“A person generally gets the kind of religion that he hears preached,” said he, “and most of it you hear is kind of heavy, like bread without rising. I’ve never seen a laughing preacher yet.” 56
“There must be some, though,” she reflected.
“I hope so,” said Joe.
“I’m glad you’re not full of that kind of religion,” said she. “For a long time I thought you were.”
“You did? Why?”