Anger flamed in Fred's mind. The anger died as abruptly as it had come. It was replaced by a homesickness, a longing. Unconsciously his footsteps carried him into the store. A man had the book in his hands. "You aren't going to buy _that_, George," the woman beside him was saying. "And why not?" the man asked, laughing. "I've never turned down a dare in my life!" He looked at the girl waiting on him. "Do you think I'll vanish, Miss?" The clerk smiled. "I wouldn't know. I have strict orders not to read the book." A solemn-faced man appeared out of nowhere and thrust a copy of the book at the clerk. "I want this, please," he said. "I'll be with you in a moment, sir," the clerk said. Others were waiting also. Fred stumbled from the store, bumping into someone in the doorway as he went through, and too confused and frightened to stop and apologize. There was no way of stopping it. Maybe the police would become alarmed at the disappearances. "What's wrong with me?" he mumbled, walking blindly in the crowds on the sidewalks. "Maybe I do lack the ability to believe. I _think_ I believe. What have I missed?" Only he, of all those who had learned the theory, had not vanished. Was faith, then, something so common, and yet impossible for he, himself, to reach? Ahead was another bookstore. In its windows were the same displays. He stopped. People were pushing through the doors. Inside they were picking up the book and looking for a clerk. The clerks were smiling and saying things Fred couldn't hear, and wrapping the books and handing them to their new owners--people who would take them home and read--and vanish. Into what? Something they would see, and smile at, and say, "Why, of course!" And with a simple acceptance they would enter it. He watched them. And from the depths of his being Fred longed to be one of them; to be able to go in and buy the book, and read it, and.... * * * * * On the other side of the window, in the store, a clerk was waiting on a customer. The customer turned to look at him, with his nose flattened against the glass. He didn't see them. In his eyes was a faraway look, a startled light. "Why of course!" he said in quiet wonder. There was just a little blur, where a nose had pressed against the window, and the customer frowned and said to the clerk, "That young man outside--he--he--" "Three-fifty, please," the clerk said. "Ah--oh. Oh, sure." End of Project Gutenberg's Ye of Little Faith, by Roger Phillips Graham