"All that people go to church for is to see and be seen, ladies especially," he said. "They live to dress and show off their new gowns and hats, and were it not for the chance church-going gives them, not one parson in a hundred would have a corporal's guard for audience. As for the preaching, not one in ten understands a word of it, and most of those who understand fail to believe it. I don't, I am sure. I consider a minister is a man who talks to earn his money. A few old tabbies, of course, are sincere and believe in prayer and all that sort of foolishness, but the rest only make believe they do. There may be a God and maybe there isn't--I don't know. I doubt it, however. As for the hereafter, that is all moonshine. When we go, that is the end of us." "And so you don't believe in spirits and a future life," answered Chip, with sudden defiance. "Well, I do, and I know that people have souls that live again, for I've seen them, hundreds of times. As for all church-going people being hypocrites, that's a lie, and I know better. The best woman I ever knew believed in praying, and so did my mother, and I won't hear them called such a name." It was Chip, blazing up again, in defence of her own opinions, and this smooth-spoken fellow saw his mistake on the instant. "Oh, well, you may be right," he admitted at once. "I wasn't speaking of all womankind--only the fashionable ones whom I know. As for soul life, I want to believe as you do, of course, and wish you would convince me that it is true." And so peace was restored, and once more the lullaby of his wooing talk began. For two hours he spun to Chip the web of his blandishments, and then the sun warned her, and she rose to go. "It would be delightful to escort you home," he said, "but I fear I'd better not. Your aunt might see us returning, and scold you. Now if you will meet me here again to-morrow afternoon, and try to convince me that there is a future life, I shall be most happy. Will you?" But Chip was alert. "No, I don't think I shall," she responded bluntly; "I am not running after you--not a step. As for what you believe or don't believe, that isn't my lookout," and with an almost uncivil "Good day, sir," she left him. The farther away she got from this snakelike charmer, the more an intuitive belief in his real intentions possessed her. She was unskilled in the fine art of conversation, had only the inborn purity of her thoughts to protect her; and yet she half read this specious flatterer, and felt, rather than realized, his baseness.