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 doing, he'd telegraph me to go home. He was afraid that talking it over might make me self-conscious, and spoil everything."

I sat still and whittled on the cleat. There didn't seem to be anything to say. I'd planned so much for the Autumn—the things we'd do when Bess got home,—and now it was all up. Of course, I was glad for Bess,—I could see how much the trip was going to mean to her; but to think of all of those beautiful Autumn days that were coming, and no one to chum with,—that is, no one with whom I was in touch or who knew how I felt about things, or who would understand everything I said, without a lot of explanation; and when I'd been alone all Summer—well, things looked mighty black,—so black, in fact, that I didn't want to talk about them; so I started something else.

"Bess," I said, "are you a Christian Scientist?"

Bess hesitated. "I—I don't know," she said. "whether I ought to say that I am, or not."

"Do you mean that you aren't quite sure that you believe it?"

"No! Oh, no, not that at all! I do believe it; because I can understand the things it teaches