“But I was curious to know what he meant by ‘shipwreck of his faith.’ As we picked up our various belongings (this time I noted that he asked for my bag) and walked over through the woods to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, I determined to probe him a little.
“‘Mr. Everett,’ I began, ‘don’t you think, after all, that philosophy is a rather dangerous thing for one to begin to study?’”
I smiled mischievously as Mildred inadvertently disclosed the name which hitherto she had adroitly concealed. She flushed a little, as if annoyed.
“After all,” she said, “you might as well know his name, for he has gone, heaven knows where, and I shall never see him again.”
A shade of sadness fell upon her face turned toward the firelight, but she went quietly on:
“He hesitated a moment before he answered, as if mentally to adjust himself to my plane of ignorance. Then he asked, ‘And why dangerous, Miss Brewster?’
“‘You know what I mean,’ said I, rather vexed at being obliged to put my vague thoughts into words. ‘What good can all this theorizing and speculation do? Don’t you think it would be a great deal better for all these people here to spend their time in talking about something practical? My feeling is, that people who begin to think and question about God and immortality and such things, and aren’t satisfied with the simple truths of the Bible, get to be skeptics before they know it, and are ruined for life. My mother’s religion is good enough for me. If I can live up to that I shall be satisfied, without racking my brains and reasoning over things that God intended us to take on faith.’
“To tell the truth, this didn’t exactly represent my thought; but I had often heard it said, and thought it sounded well. Besides, I was curious to see what he would reply to it.
“‘It would take hours to answer adequately what you have just said, Miss Brewster,’ replied Mr. Everett; ‘but I will try to say something; for it is precisely these same questions that I myself have been trying to answer in the last few years.’
“We were climbing the little hill that like a crescent surrounded the green hollow, where lie the sleepers in their last sleep. On the summit, beneath the tall sighing pines, beside Emerson’s grave and within a stone’s throw of the graves of Hawthorne and Thoreau, we sat down and looked over the broad valley on the other side with the hills beyond. It was so quiet, so peaceful, just where a tired soul would love to have his last resting-place.