"I thought God was so good he let us join the Church just as he
lets us go into Heaven--and he makes us good and we try all we can, too."
"That's an easy way to do, to let him make you good. But when the
minister talks to me I tell him I'm afraid."
"I wouldn't be afraid," said Marjorie; "because you want to do as Christ
commands, don't you? And he says we must remember him by taking the
bread and wine for his sake, to remember that he died for us, don't you
know?"
"I never did it, not once, and I'm most a hundred!"
"Aren't you sorry, don't you want to?" pleaded Marjorie, laying her warm
fingers on the hard old hand.
"I'm afraid," whispered the trembling voice. "I never was good enough."
"Oh, dear," sighed Marjorie, her eyes brimming over, "I don't know how to
tell you about it. But won't you listen to the minister, he talks so
plainly, and he'll tell you not to be afraid."
"They don't go to communion, my son nor his wife; they don't ask me to."
"But they want you to; I know they want you to--before you die,"
persuaded Marjorie. "You are so old now."
"Yes, I'm old. And you shall read to me out of the Testament before you
go. Hepsie reads to me, but she gets to crying before she's half through;
she can't find 'peace,' she says."
"I wish she could," said Marjorie, almost despairingly.
"Now I'll tell you a story," began the old voice in a livelier tone. "I
have to talk about more than fifty years ago--I forget about other
things, but I remember when I was young.
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