Yes, that does sound dreadful. Worst of it is, you get used to 'em, and don't notice 'em much. Why, I've sung that hymn dozens of times in church, and never thought of the meanin'. And there's Tom Davis: he drinks most of the time, but he has sung once or twice in the choir (though he ain't been ever converted yet, and he is really terrible wicked; don't do nothin' but swear and drink). But I don't suppose he noticed the words of this hymn,--though I know he sung it,--for he keeps right on in his sin; and he couldn't, you know, Mrs. Ward, if that hymn was true to him." Helen left Alfaretta to reflect upon the hymn, and went back to the study; but the door was shut, and she heard the scratching of her husband's pen. She turned away, for she had lived in a minister's household, and had been brought up to know that nothing must disturb a man who was writing a sermon. But John had hurriedly opened the door. "Did you want to speak to me, dearest?" he said, standing at the foot of the stairs, his pen still between his fingers. "I heard your step." "But I must not interrupt you," she answered, smiling at him over the balusters. "You never could interrupt me. Come into the study and tell me what it is." "Only to ask you about a hymn which Alfaretta says is to be sung on Sunday," Helen said. "Of course there is some mistake about it, but Alfaretta says the choir has been practicing it, and I know you would not want it." "Do you remember what it was, dear?" "I can't quote it," Helen answered, "but it began something about 'damnation and the dead.'" "Oh, yes, I know;" and then he added, slowly, "Why don't you like it, Helen?" She looked at him in astonishment. "Why, it's absurd; it's horrible." John was silent for a few moments, and then he sighed: "We will not sing it, dear." "But, John," she cried, "how could such a hymn ever have been printed? Of course I know people used to think such things, but I had no idea anybody thought of hell in that literal way to-day, or that hell itself was a real belief to very many people; however, I suppose, if such hymns are printed, the doctrine is still taught?" "Yes," John said, "it is as real to-day as God himself,--as it always has been and must be; and it is believed by Christians as earnestly as ever. We cannot help it, Helen." Helen looked at him thoughtfully. "It is very terrible; but oh, John, what sublime faith, to be able to believe God capable of such awful cruelty, and yet to love and trust Him!" John's face grew suddenly bright. "'Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him,'" he said, with the simplicity of assurance. But when he went back again to his sermon, he was convinced that he had been wise to put off for a little while the instruction in doctrine of which his wife's soul stood in such sore need. "I was right," he thought; "the Light must come gradually, the blaze of truth at once would blind her to the perfection of justice. She would not be able to understand there was mercy, too."