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. "Of course," said Joanna. "Which kind are the surest?" "The Good People." "I mean, which kind of religion is the--is the safest?" "Each one thinks his own is." "Which do you think, Joanna?" "Congregationalist." "Is that yours?" "Yes." "Do they have a better chance than Baptists or Methodists or Unitarians?" "I guess they do." "But the Unitarians have the biggest church." "Yes--in this village." "What do they believe,--the Unitarians?" Joanna closed her eyes. "Oh, I can't tell you exactly. They believe something about God being the only thing to worship--the most important of all." "Well,--isn't He?" "Why--er--yes." "What's bigger?" Joanna frowned. "Bigger than what?" "Bigger than God?" "Why, nothing, I suppose." "Then it seems to me He is the One to be friends with." And Cyrus leaned back on the pillow, and turned his face toward the light. Joanna stroked his head. "But don't you worry, little boy. You are not goin' to die just because you are sick." "Are you sure?"