“I know why you’re here to-night,” continued Mr. Sumption. “You’ve come to gaze on me, to watch me in my trouble, to see how I take it. You haven’t come to hear the Gospel—you yawned and wriggled all the time I was preaching it. You haven’t come just to think of the dead boys—you did that in church this morning. You’re here to gaze at me, to see how I take it. Well, now you see how I take it. You see I’m not ashamed. Why should I be ashamed of my son? He’s worth a bundle of you—he’s died a better death than anyone in this church is likely to die; and if he lived a vessel of wrath, at all events he was a full vessel, not just a jug of emptiness. He lived like the wild man he was born, and he died like a poor wild animal shot down. But I am not ashamed of him. And though he died without baptism, without conversion, without assurance, I cannot and I will not believe that he is lost. Somewhere the love of God is holding him. The Lord tells me that my fatherhood is only a poor mess of His; well, in that case, I reckon He won’t cast out my lad. Willingly I’d bear his sins for him, and so I reckon Christ will bear them even for the child of wrath. Where I can love, He can love more, and since He died as a felon, reckon He feels for my poor boy. He knows what it is to stand with His back to the wall and see every man’s hand raised against Him, and every man’s tongue stuck out. And because He knows, He understands, and because He understands, He forgives. Amen.” The windows of the Bethel shook mournfully in the wind, and the rain hissed down them, as if it shuddered and wept to hear such doctrine within its walls. But the sounds were lost in the shuffle of the rising congregation, standing up to sing the psalm. 10 That night the minister did not stand at the door to shake hands with the departing congregation. Beatups, Putlands, Sindens, Hubbles, Bourners, jostled their way unsaluted into the darkness, groping with umbrellas, fumbling into cloaks. But even the rain could not prevent an exchange of indignation. People formed themselves into clumps and scurried together over the wet road. From every clump voices rose in expostulation and resentment. “To think as I’d live to be insulted in church!” “Reckon he’d never dare say half that in a plaace whur folkses’ tongues wurn’t tied to answer him.” “Maade out as we thought only of our insides,” said Mrs. Sinden. “Seemingly he never thinks of his, when all the village knows he wur trying the other day to make Mrs. Tom give him a tin of salmon fur ninepence instead of one-and-three.” “And she did it, too,” said Mrs. Putland. “It’s twice,” said Mrs. Beatup, “as he called me stiff-necked and uncircumcised, and I reckon I aun’t neither.” “And he said I wur lik an empty jug,” said Mus’ Beatup. “And his Jerry’s worth a bundle of us,” laughed Mus’ Sinden. “Wot vrothers me,” wheezed old Father-in-law Hubble, “is that to the best of my hearing I heard him maake out as Christ died fur all.”