The printer paused in his work. "What do _you_ say?" he asked as last, without answering Dick's question. "Well," answered Dick slowly, "I've tried hard for several years, to make an infidel of myself, because I couldn't stand the professions of the church, and their way of doing things. But that meeting last night was different, and I was forced to the conclusion, in spite of myself, that Cameron spoke the truth, and that Christ is what he claimed to be, the Saviour of mankind, in the truest, fullest sense of the word. I'm sure of this. I have always wished that it were true, and have always believed that the Christian life, as Christ taught it, would be the happiest life on earth. But there's the rub. Where can a fellow go to live the life, and why are you and I not living it as well as the people who have their names on the church books? Must I join a company of canting hypocrites in order to get to Heaven?" "Seems to me that word is a little strong for those who put up their rings and stuff last night," said Udell; "and anyway, I know one in the crowd who was in earnest." "You are right, George," returned Dick. "I spoke harshly. I know there are earnest ones in the church, but I don't see how they stand it. But you're dodging my question. Do you believe in Christ as the Saviour of men?" "Folks say that I'm an infidel," answered George. "I don't care what folks say, I want to know what you think about it." "I don't know," said George. "Sometimes, when I listen to the preachers, I get so befuddled and mixed up that there's nothing but a big pile of chaff, with now and then a few stray grains of truth, and the parson keeps the air so full of the dust and dirt that you'd rather he wouldn't hunt for the grain of truth at all. Then I'm an infidel. And again I see something like that last night, and I believe it must be true. And then I think of Clara, and am afraid to believe because I fear it's the girl and not the truth I'm after. You see, I want to believe so bad that I'm afraid I'll make myself believe what I don't believe. There, now you can untangle that while you run off that batch of cards. It's half-past eight now and we have not done a blessed thing this morning." He turned resolutely to his task of setting up another speech for the local politician. "George, what in the world does this mean?" asked Dick, about two hours later, holding up a proof sheet that he had just taken from the form George had placed on the stone, and reading: "When Patrick Henry said, Give me liberty or give me Clara, he voiced a sentiment of every American church member." George flushed. "Guess you'd better set up the rest of this matter," he said gruffly. "I'll run the press awhile." He laid down his stick and put the composing case between himself and Dick as soon as possible.