"Harold says I am a heathen," she said. "What is that, brother John?" He frowned thoughtfully and then smiled indulgently. "The church folks say it is a person that doesn't believe in a God. They pretend to believe in one because they make a living out of it. Let them think what they like. It doesn't concern us." "Yes, it does," Dora answered, firmly. "Harold, Betty, and her mother all say that I must believe in God, that I must study about Him, listen to sermons, and--and even pray to Him every night and morning. They say I must go to Sunday-school and learn all about the Bible and Adam, and--and somebody else." "Well, it is all right; go with them," John said in slow perplexity. "Most people do such things, and maybe you'd better. I don't want to stand in your way. Yes, you'd better go along with them and be like the rest. When you are grown you can think it all out for yourself, as I have." Betty was coming from her mother's room, one flight below, and she turned and greeted them with a smile. "She is a nice girl," John thought, as she and Dora linked arms and went ahead of him down the stairs. "She will make a fine woman, but she will never be equal to--" He checked his thought. A storm of pain swept through him, almost depriving him of strength. He followed the children into the dining-room, which was well filled with boarders, some eating, some waiting to be served, and all chatting volubly. There was a great clatter of knives, forks, and dishes. Mrs. McGwire was helping in the kitchen, and Betty joined her and became a waitress herself. "I must fight it off--kill it, or it will down me!" John said to himself, as he and Dora sat waiting to be served. "I will never do the work before me if I keep this up, and it must be done--it must!" When he had breakfasted and was outside in the cool, crisp air he felt better. He walked briskly, swinging his arms to and fro to start the circulation of his blood. He knew the car he was to take and he boarded it, first buying a morning paper, which he could not read for thinking of the delicious and agonizing things he had forsworn forever. "It will never come through trying to forget," he finally said, with a stoic shrug. "It will simply have to wear itself out. Maybe, after a few months, a year, or two, I will be something like I was before Sam and I went up to--" He checked himself again. "Oh, what's the use?" His very mind seemed to sob and choke. A man seated near him asked him what time it was, and John took out his watch and informed him in the casual tone that any passenger might use to another. "Thanks. Fine day," the man said, and John nodded and smiled. CHAPTER XXXIX One of Jane Holder's masculine admirers brought her home in a buggy from the Square one afternoon, and when he had parted with her at the gate he drove away. She went up to Mrs. Trott's room, finding that lady dressing at her bureau.