“You really think so, Bill?” Nathan asked almost piteously. “Who knows, Nat?” “I’ve been studying my Bible a bit, Bill. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Not dad’s Bible—_the_ Bible. Men in perplexity have been going to the Bible for a long, long time, Bill. And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the words of the psalmist: ‘Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.’ I’ve never forgotten how you and I prayed that poor little kid’s prayer that night in the alders after I’d tried to kiss Bernie Gridley. I’ve done a lot of praying, Bill—I mean to do more. I’ve wondered if it’s true, ‘Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth?’ Is that the reason I must grope for a time in a fog before finding a hill top where the sun’s shining gloriously—and Someone—is waiting for me to come up? I wonder if there is a God—if the world is anything but a little fleck of gravel, twirling off in space—if the hairs of our heads are not numbered—if the sparrows aren’t seen when they fall? I wonder, Bill, if the Almighty perhaps—does—love—me? And—that’s—the reason?” My throat grew thick at the way he said it. Nathan on the bed blurred before me. There was nothing maudlin about it. VI Nathan was ill two weeks. The affairs of the box-shop were wound up. Nathan was exonerated from any criminal complicity in his father’s felony. The fiasco passed into small-town industrial history. My friend secured a position in the sales department of the knitting mills. A month later he started off on the road. His salary was two thousand a year and a generous bonus in commissions. I think Caleb Gridley was responsible. VII Milly considered herself left a widow without a widow’s privileges. One night she met Si Plumb on the street and let him take her into the Olympic picture show. She knew people were commenting and was defiant. The film was, “Her Right to Happiness.” There was a travelogue and a current pictorial beforehand. However, the travelogue and current pictorial didn’t count. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER III GOOD RESOLUTIONS I Madelaine Theddon had returned from a matinée one spring afternoon when she was met by the announcement that a gentleman had been waiting an hour. Gordon Ruggles arose to greet her. Madelaine’s first feeling was one of extreme annoyance and defiant exasperation. She looked at Gordon, however, and realized in an instant that a change had come over the fellow. What had happened? “Don’t be angry, Madge,” he pleaded respectfully enough. “All I want is a few minutes—to talk.”