'"
He stopped a moment. We were walking down the hill: all about us on
either side spread the quiet fields. In the high air above a few lacy
clouds were drifting eastward. Upon this story of tragic human life
crept in pleasantly the calm of the countryside.
"And I did try Him," my companion was saying, "and I found that the
words on the wall were true. They were true back there and they've been
true ever since. When I began to be decent again and got back my health
and my job, I figured that I owed a lot to God. I wa'n't no orator, and
no writer and I had no money to give, 'but,' says I to myself, I'm a
painter. I'll help God with paint.' So here I am a-travelling up and
down the roads and mostly painting 'God is Love,' but sometimes 'Repent
ye' and 'Hell yawns.' I don't know much about religion--but I do know
that His Word is like a fire, and that a man can live by it, and if once
a man has it he has everything else he wants."
He paused: I looked around at him again. His face was set steadily
ahead--a plain face showing the marks of his hard earlier life, and yet
marked with a sort of high beauty.
"The trouble with people who are unhappy, Mister," he said, "is that
they won't try God."
I could not answer my companion.
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