"No, not very devout. Nothing like mother, for instance. I have grown very careless about some things."
"Would you always be governed by the teaching of the Church in this matter—always—never decide for yourself?"
"When it came to such a big thing," she said slowly, "I don't think I'd dare disobey."
"What are you afraid of—future punishment?"
"Why, yes, partly that," she smiled; "it isn't a very jolly prospect, you know."
He was truly astonished. He supposed that everybody nowadays, even Catholics, had tacitly agreed to give up hell. Hell was too ridiculously unreasonable to be believed in any more.
"Georgia," he asked, "have you ever looked much at the stars?"
"Why, yes; once in awhile. Last Sunday evening at Bismarck Garden Al and I found the dipper—it was just as plain—is that what you mean? Of course I don't pretend to be much of an astronomer."
"Some nights," he said, "when it's clear I go up on the roof and lie on my back, and, well, it's a great course in personal modesty. Some of those stars, those little points of light, are as much bigger than our whole world as an elephant is bigger than a mosquito, and live as much longer."
"Of course," she answered, "we know that everything is bigger than people used to think, but still couldn't God have made it all, just the same?"