"Not only for the soul he has, but for the diseased body of him, for all that he suffers and for all the injury he does--he and all his class----" Durgan stopped. Both women were looking at him inquiringly. "Before God I take my share of the blame and shame of it. But it is one thing to be guilty, and another to know how to make reparation. Take an illustration from the brood of snakes in the cliff here. In some slight way you are responsible even for their existence, for you ought to have had the parents killed. But you cannot benefit this brood by kindness; you would wrong the world by protecting them. Believe me, I have been reared among these people; I know the good and bad of them; a rattlesnake is less dangerous than a man like this 'Dolphus. While I would defend such fellows as Adam with my life, if need be, I believe that I should do the best thing for the world in killing such creatures as 'Dolphus and Adam's wife. While such as I ought to bear the punishment of their sins and our own in the next world, the best reparation we could make in this world would be to slaughter them." Bertha had listened, fascinated by his most unusual earnestness of manner. But at the last words she rose hastily and went out with averted face. The tardy moon was now high. They saw her pacing the walk between the tall sides of the garden beds. Miss Smith watched her a moment with eyes of loving solicitude, then said, "I'm sure you think you're speaking right down truth, Mr. Durgan, but, you see, _I'm_ a Christian, and I b'lieve the Lord Jesus died for 'Dolphus and Eve, and not for rattlers. That makes all the difference." "And yet it is a fact that, among the men and women for whom He died, there are fires of evil which can only burn themselves out." "All things are possible with God," said she. He made no reply. He was always impressed by the spiritual strength of this delicate woman. After a moment's pause it occurred to him to ask simply-- "What is your sister frightened of--I mean at different times? She seems to suffer from fears." Slowly she raised her faded blue eyes to him with a look of deep sorrow and puzzled inquiry. "I don't know. She won't talk to me about it--Bertha won't." "But surely----" "Yes, I ought to know all she thinks, and be able to help her. Perhaps I know there may be something I won't admit to myself. But, Mr. Durgan, I'm real glad if she talks to you, for it's bad for her to be so lonesome. She had a great shock once, Bertha had. If you can make her talk to you, it'll do her good, Mr. Durgan." Durgan obediently went out, and walked a few minutes with Bertha in the further shadow of the garden. "Why did you say it?" she asked. "How could you talk of it being good to kill anyone?"