"I'm bound to stop and listen to him sometimes, when he begins to talk. But since he comed of a morning for his glass of milk and you stopped it--or I told him I'd rather he didn't--us have had no words about holy things. He's got a side all the same." "I'm sorry to hear you say so. If you say so, you think so, no doubt." Sarah Jane laughed. "'Tis a free country--as far as thoughts be the matter." "That's him again. I heard him say the only sort of freedom we could have was freedom of thought. But unbelievers shouldn't have that if I could help it." She looked at him with love rather than respect. "You'm deep but not wide in your way of thinking. I mind once last autumn coming to you and marking as you'd been trampling in the whortleberries. Your boots was all red and purple, and it looked for all the world as if you might have been stamping somebody to death." "What things you say!" "All the same now, be honest, Daniel--couldn't you do it? Can't you feel that things might happen so bad that you'd even kill a person? There's death in your eyes sometimes, when you talk of evildoers, and them that are cruel to children, and suchlike." "'Tisn't a wifely thing to remind me I've got a temper. You've never had to regret it, anyway." "How do you know that? But 'tis true: I never have. You're a deal too soft with me, bless your big heart. I can't do wrong in your eyes; and yet, sometimes, I wonder how you'd take it if I did do wrong--such wrong as there could be no doubt about. There's some things you'd kill me for, I do believe." "You'm talking to a Christian man; but you don't seem to know it." "A man be a man--Christian or heathen. Things do happen to men sometimes, and their religion don't make any more difference then to what they do than the hat on their heads. Quite right, too. I like to think there's a bit of metal in you. Sometimes I almost wish you'd make me feel it, when I startle you and say my silly speeches." "How can I be angry with such speeches as yours? They'm silly enough only too often; but they'm frank as light. 'Tis the hidden and secret thing I'd rage against." "If you found it out." "I should find it out. There's no power of hiding in you, even if there was the will." "You'm a dear man," she said, and lifted her mouth and kissed him. "All the same," she added, "every woman's got a power of hiding--even the biggest fool amongst 'em--and--and the old gravestones of they lost people be quite as interesting to me as the crosses are to you." "I don't say they are lost. I only say that we've no right to say anything about all them as went down to death before salvation came." "Why couldn't Jesus Christ have hastened into the world quicker?" she asked. "'Twould have saved a deal of sad doubt about all them poor souls." "You ought not to think such questions. I lay Woodrow said that."