reaching out for something better, did not, as Satan promised,
make us as God; but it did make us different from all the other animals
in the Garden, placing us even above the angels,--so far above, as to
bring us, apparently, by a new and divine descent, into Eden.

The hope of the race is in Eve,--in her making the best she can of
Adam; in her clear understanding of his lame logic,--that her
_im_perfections added to his perfections make the perfect Perfection;
and in her reaching out beyond Adam for something more--for the ballot
now.

If there is growth, if there is hope, if there is continuance, if there
is immortality for the race and for the soul, it is to be found in this
sure faith in the Ultimate, the Perfect, in this certain disappointment
every time we think we have it; and in this abiding conviction that we
are about to bring it home. But let a man settle down on perfection as
a present possession, and that man is as good as dead already--even
religiously dead, if he has possession of a perfect Salvation.

Now, "Sister Smith" claimed to possess Perfection--a perfect infallible
book of revelations in her King James Version of the Scriptures, and
she claimed to have lived by it, too, for eighty years. I was fresh
from the theological school, and this was my first "charge." This was
my first meal, too, in this new charge, at the home of one of the
official brethren, with whom Sister Smith lived.

There was an ominous silence at the table for which I could hardly
account--unless it had to do with the one empty chair. Then Sister
Smith appeared and took the chair. The silence deepened. Then Sister
Smith began to speak and everybody stopped eating. Brother Jones laid
down his knife, Sister Jones dropped her hands into her lap until the
thing should be over. Leaning far forward toward me across the table,
her steady gray eyes boring through me, her long bony finger pointing
beyond me into eternity, Sister Smith began with spaced and measured
words:--

"My young Brother--what--do--you--think--of--Jonah?"

I reached for a doughnut, broke it, slowly, dipped it up and down in
the cup of mustard and tried for time. Not a soul stirred. Not a word
or sound broke the tense silence about the operating-table.

"What--do--you--think--of--Jonah?"

"Well, Sister Smith, I--"

"Never mind. Don't commit yourself. You needn't tell me what you
think of Jonah.
You--are--too--young--to--know--what--you--think--o