tubborn conviction. "He isn't a God of love at
all. That's why I'm skeered of him. No, no. He's a God of wrath and
justice and punishment. Love! There ain't no such thing as love! I've
never found it on earth, and I don't believe it's to be found in God."

"Naomi, God loves us like a father."

"Like MY father?" Naomi's shrill laughter, pealing through the still
room, was hideous to hear.

The old minister shuddered.

"No--no! As a kind, tender, all-wise father, Naomi--as you would have
loved your little child if it had lived."

Naomi cowered and moaned.

"Oh, I wish I could believe THAT. I wouldn't be frightened if I could
believe that. MAKE me believe it. Surely you can make me believe that
there's love and forgiveness in God if you believe it yourself."

"Jesus Christ forgave and loved the Magdalen, Naomi."

"Jesus Christ? Oh, I ain't afraid of HIM. Yes, HE could understand and
forgive. He was half human. I tell you, it's God I'm skeered of."

"They are one and the same," said Mr. Leonard helplessly. He knew he
could not make Naomi realize it. This anguished death-bed was no place
for a theological exposition on the mysteries of the Trinity.

"Christ died for you, Naomi. He bore your sins in His own body on the
cross."

"We bear our own sins," said Naomi fiercely. "I've borne mine all my
life--and I'll bear them for all eternity. I can't believe anything
else. I CAN'T believe God can forgive me. I've ruined people body and
soul--I've broken hearts and poisoned homes--I'm worse than a murderess.
No--no--no, there's no hope for me." Her voice rose again into that
shrill, intolerable shriek. "I've got to go to hell. It ain't so much
the fire I'm skeered of as the outer darkness. I've always been so
skeered of darkness--it's so full of awful things and thoughts. Oh,
there ain't nobody to help me! Man ain't no good and I'm too skeered of
God."

She wrung her hands. Mr. Leonard walked up and down the room in the
keenest anguish of spirit he had ever known. What could he do? What
could he say? There was healing and peace in his religion for this woman
as for all others, but he could express it in no language which this
tortured soul could understand. He looked at her writhing face; he
looked at the idiot girl chuckling to herself at the foot of the bed;
he looked through the open door to the remote, starlit night--and
a horrible sense of utter helplessness overcame him. He could do
nothing--nothing! In all his