"Still, you see she can't stay."
"No, I don't see. You and Miss Grace must be reconciled."
"Oh, Abbott, can't you understand, or is it that you just won't? It isn't on my account that Miss Noir must leave this house. She's going to bring trouble—she's already done it. I've had lots of experience, and when I see people hurrying down hill, I expect to find them at the bottom, not because it's in the people, but because it's in the direction. I don't care how no-account folks are, if they keep doggedly climbing up out of the valley, just give 'em time, and they'll reach the mountain-top. I believe some mighty good-intentioned men are stumbling down hill, carrying their religion right into hell."
"Hush, little friend! You don't understand what religion is."
"If I can't find out from its fruits, I don't want to know."
"Of course. But consider how Miss Grace's labors are blessing the helpless."
"Abbott, unless the fruits of religion are flavored by love, they're no more account than apples taken with bitter-rot—not worth fifty cents a barrel. The trouble with a good deal of the church-fruit to- day is bitter-rot."
Abbott asked slyly, "What about your fruit, out there in the world?"
"Oh," Fran confessed, with a gleam, "we're not in the orchard-business at all, out here."
Abbott laid his hand earnestly upon her arm. "Fran! Come in and help us spray."