"Yes'm." He spoke in a fade-a-way voice, and he smiled from sheer force of will. "I feel very—very—I don't know." And one of his hands moved instinctively to the sphere of revolt. His head drooped, partly from pain; partly from shame that these awful spasms had weakened his legs and might effect his courage.
"'Tis there ye are sufferin'? 'Tis the belly ache?"
Cyrus nodded. "Yes—Mrs. Eagan—and I never—had—such a——" The lips quivered, his head sank lower and he leaned against the fence for support. Mrs. Eagan laid down her basket. Then closer to the smaller white face came the larger red one.
"D'ye feel so bad as that, little man?"
Cyrus nodded, with lips tight pressed to conceal a quivering he could not control. He looked into the light blue eyes, now near his own, and tried to smile.
Mrs. Eagan said no more. Cyrus felt an arm behind his legs, another across his back, and he was lifted from the earth. She lifted him in her arms—as Hercules might have lifted a spring lamb. With his head against her shoulder she carried him easily up the long driveway to his own home.
There were sleepless hours that night, and Cyrus did some unusual thinking on important subjects. For, as it happened, he had recently read portions of the Old Testament, quite by accident, and was much impressed, temporarily, by certain statements of the Hebrew fathers. He inferred from that book that the Ruler of the Universe was watchful and vindictive, and dependent upon constant praise; that for any dodging of this praise and worship hell fire and eternal damnation were ordinary penalties; that the sins of the fathers were visited upon the children, forever and ever—which seemed unfair. The impression of all this upon his youthful mind was that any person who really believed these things must be either impossibly good or scared to death. While in good health those awful utterances did not worry him. Now, however, in the silent hours of the night, weakened by the devastation in his interior, he became less callous to such warnings. Those Hebrew fathers, backed by the vindictive Almighty, might get him before daylight and consign him, forever, to the fires of hell.
But at last he slept. And when he awoke the sun was shining in his chamber—and he was still alive! However, when Joanna came up with his toast and tea, and sat at his bedside, he was still haunted by the awful prophecies of the Hebrew fathers and by the suspicion that the Avenging Deity might still have an eye on him.
Joanna was a well-built woman of forty, with good features and an honest face. For nearly twenty years she had lived in the Alton family as housekeeper, nurse, companion, cook, friend and servant: and, incidentally, as mother to Cyrus. While Joanna's education had been scanty, her common sense was abundant. Her attendance at church was regular, and Cyrus felt, naturally, that her views on Paradise and Purgatory could be relied on. So he asked if religious people were more likely to get to heaven than other folks.