With a sigh, he turned to his blank sheet.  “In the earlier stages of our belief,” he wrote, “we conceived of hell as literally a place of fire and brimstone, of eternal suffering and torture.  In the light which has come to us later, we perceive that hell is a spiritual state, and realise that the consciousness of a sin is its punishment.”

Then he tore the sheet into bits, for this was not what his congregation wanted; yet it was his sincere belief.  He could not stultify himself to please his audience—­they must take him as he was, or let him go.

Yet the thought of leaving was unpleasant, for he had found work to do in a field where, as it seemed to him, he was sorely needed.  His parishioners had heard much of punishment, but very little of mercy and love.  They were tangled in doctrinal meshes, distraught by quibbles, and at swords’ points with each other.

He felt that he must in some way temporise, and hold his place until he had led his flock to a loftier height.  He had no desire to force his opinions upon any one else, but he wished to make clear his own strong, simple faith, and spread abroad, if he might, his own perfect trust.

A commanding rap resounded upon his door.  “Come,” he called, and Miss Mehitable entered.

Thorpe was not subtle, but he felt that this errand was of deeper import than usual.  The rustle of her stiffly-starched garments was portentous, and there was a set look about her mouth which boded no good to anybody.

“Will you sit down?” he asked, offering her his own chair.

“No,” snapped Miss Mehitable, “I won’t.  What I’ve got to say, I can say standin’.  I come,” she announced, solemnly, “from the Ladies’ Aid Society.”

“Yes?” Thorpe’s tone was interrogative, but he was evidently not particularly interested.

“I’m appointed a committee of one,” she resumed, “to say that the Ladies’ Aid Society have voted unanimously that they want you to preach on hell.  The Church is goin’ to rack and ruin, and we ain’t goin’ to stand it no longer.  Even the disreputable characters will walk right in and stay all through the sermon—­Andy Rogers and the rest.  And I was particularly requested to ask whether you wished to have us understand that you approve of Andy Rogers and his goin’s on.”

“What,” temporised Thorpe, “does Andy Rogers do?”

“For the lands sake!” ejaculated Miss Mehitable.  “Wasn’t he drunk four months ago and wasn’t he caught stealing the Deacon’s chickens?  You don’t mean to tell me you never heard of that?”

“I believe I did hear,” returned the minister, in polite recognition of the fact that it had been Miss Mehitable’s sole conversational topic at the time.  “He stole the chickens because he was hungry, and he got drunk because he didn’t know any better.  I talked with him, and he promised me that he would neither steal nor drink any more.  Moreover, he earned the money and paid full price for the chickens.  Have you heard that he has broken his promise?”