Austin Thorpe laughed indulgently. "A rose by any other name," he said, "is—none the less a rose. Doctor Ralph was right—it is a story book, and I am right, too, for it is also a novel."
Araminta turned very pale and her eyes filled with tears.
"Mr. Thorpe," she said, in an anguished whisper, "will I be burned?"
"Why, child, what do you mean?"
"I didn't know it was a novel," sobbed Araminta. "I thought it was a story book. Aunt Hitty says people who read novels get burned—they writhe in hell forever in the lake of fire."
The Reverend Austin Thorpe went to the door and looked out into the hall. No one was in sight. He closed the door very gently and came back to Araminta's bed. He drew his chair nearer and leaned over her, speaking in a low voice, that he might not be heard.
"Araminta, my poor child," he said, "perhaps I am a heretic. I don't know. But I do not believe that a being divine enough to be a God could be human enough to cherish so fiendish a passion as revenge. Look up, dear child, look up!"
Araminta turned toward him obediently, but she was still sobbing.
"It is a world of mystery," he went on. "We do not know why we come nor where we go—we only know that we come and that eventually, we go. Yet I do not think that any one of us nor any number of us have the right to say what the rest of us shall believe.
"I cannot think of Heaven as a place sparsely populated by my own sect, with a world of sinners languishing in flames below. I think of Heaven as a sunny field, where clover blooms and birds sing all day. There are trees, with long, cool shadows where the weary may rest; there is a crystal stream where they may forget their thirst. I do not think of Heaven as a place of judgment, but rather of pardon and love.