Bertha had listened, fascinated by his most unusual earnestness of manner. But at the last words she rose hastily and went out with averted face. The tardy moon was now high. They saw her pacing the walk between the tall sides of the garden beds.
Miss Smith watched her a moment with eyes of loving solicitude, then said, "I'm sure you think you're speaking right down truth, Mr. Durgan, but, you see, I'm a Christian, and I b'lieve the Lord Jesus died for 'Dolphus and Eve, and not for rattlers. That makes all the difference."
"And yet it is a fact that, among the men and women for whom He died, there are fires of evil which can only burn themselves out."
"All things are possible with God," said she.
He made no reply. He was always impressed by the spiritual strength of this delicate woman. After a moment's pause it occurred to him to ask simply—
"What is your sister frightened of—I mean at different times? She seems to suffer from fears."
Slowly she raised her faded blue eyes to him with a look of deep sorrow and puzzled inquiry. "I don't know. She won't talk to me about it—Bertha won't."
"But surely——"
"Yes, I ought to know all she thinks, and be able to help her. Perhaps I know there may be something I won't admit to myself. But, Mr. Durgan, I'm real glad if she talks to you, for it's bad for her to be so lonesome. She had a great shock once, Bertha had. If you can make her talk to you, it'll do her good, Mr. Durgan."