'Ye knows when a man dies, there's two parts to him; one they buries, and one goes--' she pointed upward with her thumb, not irreverently, but as merely wishing to indicate a fact without the expense of words.
'Yes, I understand what you mean,' he said slowly, 'and under that theory, the soul----' 'Under what ?' she said sharply.
'I mean that if you say the soul is divided from the body at death----' 'But it is--ain't it ?' she interrupted.
'Yes, it is,' he said, feeling that it was better to perjure himself than to shake her faith.
'Go on,' she said, 'for parson says the soael is the thing inside that thinks; but when a man's luny, ye knows--off his head like--has he no soael then?
I've looked i' the Catechis', an' i' Bible, an' i' Prayer-book, an' fur the life o' me, I doaen't know.' 'I don't wonder at that,' he said, with mechanical compassion, casting about in his mind for some possible motive for her extraordinary vehemence.
He felt as certain, standing there, that this was a true woman, true to all the highest attributes of her nature, as if he had been able to weigh all the acts of her life and find none of them wanting.

In the midst of his perplexity he found time to ask himself whence he had this knowledge.

Did he read it in the lines of her face, or was it some unseen influence of her mind upon his own?
He had only time to question, not to answer, for she looked up in his face with the trust and expectation of a child, awaiting his words.
He spoke.

'You say when a man dies he is divided into two parts--the body that rots and the part "that lives elsewhere."' He was speaking very slowly and distinctly.

'If that part of a man which lives goes to Heaven, where everything is quite different from this, he could have no use for most of his thoughts--what we call opinions, for they are formed on what he sees, and hears, and feels here.