"Do you love him?" Mrs. Purcell asked quickly and with a keen look. "Yes, indeed. Do you?" Mrs. Purcell laughed a little laugh, which Rotha could not understand. "I aint one o' the good folks"--she said. "But you might love him, still," said Rotha, drawn on to continue the conversation, she hardly knew why, for she certainly believed the woman's last assertion. "The folks that love him are good folks, aint they?" "They ought to be," said Rotha slowly. "Well, that's what I think. There's folks that _say_ they love him, and I can't see as they're no better for it. _I_ can't." "Perhaps they are trying to be better." "Do you think Mis' Busby is?" The question came with such sharp quickness that Rotha was at a loss how to answer. "She says she do. I aint one o' the good folks; and sometimes I tells Joe I'm glad I aint." "But Mrs. Purcell, that is not the way to look at it. I have seen other people that said they loved Christ, and they lived as if they did. They were beautiful people!" Rotha spoke with emphasis, and Mrs. Purcell gave her one of her sideway glances. "I never see no such folks," she returned cynically. "I am very glad I have," said Rotha; "and I know religion is a blessed, beautiful truth. I have seen people that loved Jesus, and were a little bit like him in loving other people; they did not live for themselves; they were always taking care of somebody, or teaching or helping somebody; making people happy that had been miserable; and giving, everywhere they could, pleasure and comfort and goodness. I have seen such people." "Where did they live?" "In New York." "Was they in Mis' Busby's house?" "Not those I was speaking of." "When I see folks like that, I'll be good too," was Mrs. Purcell's conclusion. "But you love this little book?" said Rotha, recurring to the thumb-worn little volume in her hand. "I didn't tell you I did." "No, but I see you do. I should think, anybody that liked the gospel of John, would want to be like what it says." "I didn't tell you I didn't." "No," said Rotha, half laughing. "I am only guessing, and wishing, you see. Mrs. Purcell, will you take some water up to my room?" The woman's brows darkened. "What for?" she asked. "To wash with. The water I took up this afternoon was for putting my room in order,--basin and pitcher and washstand, and wiping off dust. I want water, you know, every day for myself." "The water's down here--just out o' that door." "But I cannot wash down here." "I don't know nothin' about that, whether you can or whether you can't. That's where us washes. If you want to do it up stairs, there's nothin' to hinder you." "Except that somebody must carry up the water." "That's not _my_ business," said the woman. "You can take that pail if you want to; but you must bring it down again. That's my pail for goin' to the pump."