Adventures in Contentment

"I have been too sure!" I said. "What do we know after all! Why may there not be future heavens and hells--'other heavens for other earths'? We do not know--we do not know--" So, carrying the calf, in the cool of the evening, we came at last to my yard. We had no sooner put the calf down than it jumped nimbly to its feet and ran, wobbling absurdly, to meet its mother. "The rascal," I said, "after all our work." "It's the nature of the animal," said Mr. Purdy, as he put on his coat. I could not thank him enough. I invited him to stay with us to supper, but he said he must hurry home. "Then come down soon to see me," I said, "and we will settle this question as to the existence of a hell." He stepped up close to me and said, with an appealing note in his voice: "You do not really believe in a hell, do you?" How human nature loves collusiveness: nothing short of the categorical will satisfy us! What I said to Mr. Purdy evidently appeased him, for he seized my hand and shook and shook. "We haven't understood each other," he said eagerly. "You don't believe in eternal damnation any more than I do." Then he added, as though some new uncertainty puzzled him, "Do you?" At supper I was telling Harriet with gusto of my experiences. Suddenly she broke out: "What was his name?" "Purdy." "Why, he's the infidel that Mrs. Horace tells about!"