“I’m afraid not.” Mr. Sumption rose and began walking up and down the room, his hands clasped behind him. The dipping sun poured over his burly figure, showing up in its beautiful merciless beam the seediness of his coat and the worn hollows and graven lines of his face. “I’m afraid not, Tom Beatup. I’m afraid I’ll have to stand by and see my boy damned. I’ll stand among the sheep and see him among the goats. There’s no good trying to job myself into thinking he’s one of the Elect—he knows he isn’t, and I know it. Whereas I have Assurance—I’ve had it a dunnamany years. Between us two there is a great gulf fixed. I’ll have to dwell for ever in Mount Sion, in the general assembly and church of the firstborn, and see him for ever across the gulf, in hell.” “Then reckon you’ll be in hell yourself.” “It seems like it. But the ways of the Lord are past finding out.... And I would willingly give my soul for Jerry’s—the soul the Lord has damned from the womb....” Tom stood up. He felt he could not stand any more of this. “Seemingly your religion aun’t much of a comfort to you.... Well, I must be going now.” “You’ll come again?” “Reckon I will, if you’re lonesome.” “And look here, Tom; you won’t say a word to other folk of what I’ve spoken—about Jerry, I mean. It ud never do if the parish came to think that he was getting into bad ways.” “I’ll say naun—trust me. Reckon Jerry’s middling lucky to have you stick by him as you do.” “Jerry once said he sometimes felt as if there was only me between him and hell. Seemingly I’m the only friend he’s got.” Tom felt very sorry for Mr. Sumption. He told Thyrza that he thought he must be getting queer with his troubles, and Thyrza immediately planned to take the baby to see him; and a day or two later they asked him down to the shop for the afternoon, and had the pleasure of seeing him momentarily forget his troubles in a good tea. “Reckon the poor soul thinks a lot of his inside,” said Thyrza, “and doan’t always git enough to fill it with.” 4 The last days of Tom’s fortnight seemed to rush by in spate; they blew before the March wind like the dust. Thyrza hurried on her little preparations for his departure—she was making him new shirts, and with loving hands repairing all of his that was frayed and worn, from his shirt to his soul.... For even Tom’s simple soul had been touched by the blight of war, and there was a look at the back of his eyes which came from things he never spoke of ... things he had seen out there in the land of horrors, which the folk at home did not realise—and he was unaccountable glad they did not. Thyrza’s love had driven that look to the back of his eyes and those memories to the back of his heart, though probably she would never be able to drive either the look or the memories quite away. Such things were now the lot of boys....