Rhodora Boyd. In less than a year, Boyd had deserted her. The
Commandant was transferred to the Pacific Coast. Rhodora moved, with
her mother, bed–ridden now, into a little house in the unfashionable
outskirts of Trega. There she nursed the mother until the poor
bed–ridden old lady died. Rhodora supported them both by teaching
music and French at the Trega Seminary, down by the Falls. Morning and
evening she went out and back on that weary, jingling horse–car line.
She received the annual visits that her friends paid her, inspired by
something between courtesy and charity, with her old stately simplicity
and imperturbable calm; and no one of them could feel sure that she
was conscious of their triumph or of her degradation. And she kept
the best part of her stately beauty to the very last. In any other
town she would have been taught what divorce–courts were made for; but
Trega society was Episcopalian, and that communion is healthily and
conservatively monogamous.
And so Rhodora Boyd, that once was Rhodora Pennington, died in her
little house, and her pet old maid closed her eyes. And there was an
end of Rhodora. Not quite an end, though.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
II.
SCENE.—_The Public Library of Trega._ MRS. GEORGE LISTER _and_ MRS.
JOHN LANG _are seated in the Rotunda_. MR. LIBRIVER, _the Librarian,
advances to them with books in his hands_.
MRS. LISTER.—Ah, here comes Mr. Libriver, with my “Intellectual Life.”
Thank you, Mr. Libriver—you are always so kind!
MRS. LANG.—And Mr. Libriver has brought me my “Status of Woman.” Oh,
thank you, Mr. Libriver.
MR. LIBRIVER, _a thin young man in a linen duster, retires, blushing_.
MRS. LISTER.—Mr. Libriver does _so_ appreciate women who are free from
the bondage of the novel. Did you hear about poor Rhodora’s funeral?
MRS. LANG (_with a sweeping grasp at the intellectual side of the
conversation_).—Oh, I _despise_ love–stories. In the church? Oh,
yes, I heard. (_Sweetly_). Dr. Homly told me. Doesn’t it seem just a
little—ostentatious?
MRS. LISTER.—Ostentatious—but, do you know, my dear, there are to be
eight pall–bearers!
MRS. LANG (_turning defeat into victory_).—No, I did _not_ know. I
don’t suppose that ridiculous old maid, that Miss Wimple, who seems to
be conducting the affair, _dared_ to tell _that_ to Dr. Homly. And who
are they?
MRS. LISTER (_with exceeding sweetness_).—Oh, I don’t know, dear. Only
I met Mr. Townsend, and he told me that Dr. Homly had just told _him_
that he was one of the eight.
MRS. LISTER.—Dexter Townsend! Why, it’s scandalous. Everybody knows
that he proposed to her three times and that she threw him over. It’s
an insult to—to—
MRS. LANG.—To poor dear Alma Townsend. I quite agree with you. I should
like to know how she feels—if she understands what it means.
MRS. LISTER.—Well, if I were in her place—
_Enter_ MRS. DEXTER TOWNSEND.
MRS. LANG. }
MRS. LISTER.} Why, Alma!
MRS. TOWNSEND.—Why, Ellen! Why, Mary! Oh, I’m so glad to meet you both.
I want you to lunch with me to–morrow at one o’clock. I do so _hate_
to be left alone. And poor Rhodora Pennington—Mrs. Boyd, I mean—her
funeral is at noon, and our three male protectors will have to go to
the cemetery, and Mr. Townsend is just going to take a cold bite before
he goes, and so I’m left to lunch—
MRS. LANG (_coldly_).—I don’t think Mr. Lang will go to the cemetery—
MRS. LISTER.—There is no reason why Mr. Lister—
MRS. TOWNSEND.—But, don’t you know?—They’re all to be pall–bearers!
They can’t refuse, of course.
MRS. LANG (_icily_).—Oh, no, certainly not.
MRS. LISTER (_below zero_).—I suppose it is an unavoidable duty.
MRS. LANG.—Alma, is that your _old_ Surah? What _did_ you do to it?
MRS. LISTER.—They _do_ dye things so wonderfully nowadays!
* * * * *
SCENE.—_A Verandah in front of_ MR. MCCULLOM MCINTOSH’S _house_. MRS.
MCCULLOM MCINTOSH _seated, with fancy work. To her, enter_ MR. WILLIAM
JANS _and_ MR. MILO SMITH.
MRS. MCINTOSH (_with effusion_).—Oh, Mr. Jans, I’m so delighted to see
you! And Mr. Smith, too! I never expect to see you busy men at this
time in the afternoon. And how is Laura?—and Millicent? Now _don’t_
tell me that you’ve come to say that you can’t go fishing with Mr.
McIntosh to–morrow! He’ll be _so_ disappointed!
MR. JANS.—Well, the fact is—
MRS. MCINTOSH.—You haven’t been invited to be one of poor Rhodora
Boyd’s pall–bearers, have you? That would be _too_ absurd. They say
she’s asked a regular party of her old conquests. Mr. Libriver just
passed here and told me—Mr. Lister and John Lang and Dexter Townsend—
MR. JANS.—Yes, and me.
MRS. MCINTOSH.—Oh, _Mr._ Jans! And they do say—at least Mr. Libriver
says—that she hasn’t asked a man who hadn’t proposed to her.
MR. JANS (_Dutchily_).—I d’no. But I’m asked, and—
MRS. MCINTOSH.—You don’t mean to tell me that Mr. Smith is asked, too?
Oh, that would be _too_ impossible. You don’t mean to tell me, Mr.
Smith, that you furnished one of Rhodora’s scalps ten years ago?
MR. SMITH.—You ought to know, Mrs. McIntosh. Or—no—perhaps not. You and
Mac were to windward of the centre–board on Townsend’s boat when _I_
got the mitten. I suppose you couldn’t hear us. But we were to leeward,
and Miss Pennington said she hoped _all_ proposals didn’t echo.
MRS. MCINTOSH.—The wretched c—— but she’s dead. Well, I’m thankful
Mac—Mr. McIntosh never _could_ abide that girl. He always said she was
horribly bad form—poor thing, I oughtn’t to speak so, I suppose. She’s
been punished enough.
MR. SMITH.—I’m glad you think so, Mrs. McIntosh. I hope you won’t feel
it necessary to advise Mac to refuse her last dying request.
[Illustration]
MRS. MCINTOSH.—What—
MR. SMITH.—Oh, well, the fact is, Mrs. McIntosh, we only stopped
in to say that as McIntosh and all the rest of us are asked to be
pall–bearers at Mrs. Boyd’s funeral, you might ask Mac if it wouldn’t
be just as well to postpone the fishing party for a week or so. If you
remember—will you be so kind? Thank you, good afternoon.
MR. JANS.—Good afternoon, Mrs. McIntosh.
* * * * *
SCENE.—_The Linen Closet, at the end of a sunny corridor in_ MR.
ALEXANDER SLOAN’S _house._ MRS. SLOAN _inspecting her sheets and
pillow–cases. To her, enter_ BRIDGET, _her housemaid, with a basket
full of linen, the Trega Evening Eagle on the top, folded._
MRS. SLOAN.—Why, that surely isn’t one of the new napkins!—oh, it’s the
evening paper. Dear me! how near–sighted I am getting! (_Takes it and
opens it._) You may put those linen sheets on the top shelf, Bridget.
We’ll hardly need them again this Fall. Oh, Bridget—here’s poor Mrs.
Boyd’s obituary. You used to live at Colonel Pennington’s before she
was married, didn’t you?
BRIDGET.—I did that, Mum.
MRS. SLOAN (_reading_).—“Mrs. Boyd’s pall–bearers are fitly chosen
from the most distinguished and prominent citizens of Trega.” I’m sure
I don’t see why they should be. (_Reads._) “Those invited to render the
last honors to the deceased are Mr. George Lister—“
BRIDGET.—’Tis he was foriver at the house.
[Illustration]
MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr. John Lang—“
BRIDGET.—And him.
MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr Dexter Townsend—“
BRIDGET.—And him, too.
MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr. McIntosh, Mr. William Jans, Mr. Milo Smith—“
BRIDGET.—And _thim_. Mr. Smith was her siventh.
MRS. SLOAN.—Her _what_?
BRIDGET.—Her sivinth. There was eight of thim proposed to her in the
wan week.
MRS SLOAN.—Why, Bridget! How can you possibly know _that_?
BRIDGET.—Sure, what does it mean whin a gintleman calls twice in th’
wake an’ thin stops like he was shot. An’ who is the eight’ gintleman
to walk wid the corpse, Mum?
MRS. SLOAN.—That is all, Bridget. And those pillow–cases look
shockingly! I never _saw_ such ironing! (_Exit, hastily and sternly._)
BRIDGET (_sola_).—Only siven of thim. Saints bless us! The pore lady’ll
go wan–sided to her grave!
SCENE.—_The Private Office of_ MR. PARKER HALL. MR. HALL _writing. To
him, enter_ MR. ALECK SLOAN.
MR. SLOAN.—Ah, there, Parker!
MR. HALL.—Ah, there, Aleck! What brings _you_ around so late in the day?
MR. SLOAN.—I just thought you might like to hear the names of the
fellows Rhodora Pennington chose for her pall–bearers. (_Produces
list._)
MR. HALL (_sighs_).—Poor Rhodora! Too bad! Fire ahead.
[Illustration]
MR. SLOAN (_reads list_).—“George Lister.”
MR. HALL.—_Ah!_
MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“John Lang.”
MR. HALL.—Oh!
MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Dexter Townsend.”
MR. HALL.—Well!
MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“McCullom McIntosh.”
MR. HALL.—Say!—
MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“William Jans.”
MR. HALL.—The Deuce!
MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Milo Smith.”
MR. HALL.—Great Cæsar’s ghost! This is getting very personal!
MR. SLOAN—Yes. (_Reads, nervously._) “Alexander Sloan.”
MR. HALL.—Whoo–o–o–o–up! You too?
MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“_Parker Hall._”
(_A long silence._)
MR. HALL (_faintly_).—Oh, lord, she rounded us up, didn’t she? Say,
Parker, can’t this thing be suppressed, somehow?
MR. SLOAN.—It’s in the evening paper.
(_Another long silence._)
MR. HALL (_desperately_).—Come out and have a bottle with me?
MR. SLOAN.—I can’t. I’m going down to Bitts’s stable to buy that pony
that Mrs. Sloan took such a shine to a month or so ago.
MR. HALL.—If _I_ could get out of this for a pony—Oh, lord!
[Illustration]
THE TWO CHURCHES OF
’QUAWKET.
[Illustration: “_’Read it!’ commanded Brother Joash. The minister grew
pale._”]
THE TWO CHURCHES OF ’QUAWKET.
[Illustration]
The Reverend Colton M. Pursly, of Aquawket, (commonly pronounced
’Quawket,) looked out of his study window over a remarkably pretty New
England prospect, stroked his thin, grayish side–whiskers, and sighed
deeply. He was a pale, sober, ill–dressed Congregationalist minister of
forty–two or three. He had eyes of willow–pattern blue, a large nose,
and a large mouth, with a smile of forced amiability in the corners. He
_was_ amiable, perfectly amiable and innocuous—but that smile sometimes
made people with a strong sense of humor want to kill him. The smile
lingered even while he sighed.
Mr. Pursly’s house was set upon a hill, although it was a modest abode.
From his window he looked down one of those splendid streets that are
the pride and glory of old towns in New England—a street fifty yards
wide, arched with grand Gothic elms, bordered with houses of pale
yellow and white, some in the homelike, simple yet dignified colonial
style, some with great Doric porticos at the street end. And above the
billowy green of the tree–tops rose two shapely spires, one to the
right, of granite, one to the left, of sand–stone. It was the sight of
these two spires that made the Reverend Mr. Pursly sigh.
With a population of four thousand five hundred, ’Quawket had an
Episcopal Church, a Roman Catholic Church, a Presbyterian Church,
a Methodist Church, a Universalist Church, (very small,) a Baptist
Church, a Hall for the “Seventh–Day Baptists,” (used for secular
purposes every day but Saturday,) a Bethel, and—“The Two Churches”—as
every one called the First and Second Congregational Churches. Fifteen
years before, there had been but one Congregational Church, where a
prosperous and contented congregation worshiped in a plain little
old–fashioned red brick church on a side–street. Then, out of this
very prosperity, came the idea of building a fine new free–stone
church on Main Street. And, when the new church was half–built, the
congregation split on the question of putting a “rain–box” in the
new organ. It is quite unnecessary to detail how this quarrel over
a handful of peas grew into a church war, with ramifications and
interlacements and entanglements and side–issues and under–currents and
embroilments of all sorts and conditions. In three years there was a
First Congregational Church, in free–stone, solid, substantial, plain,
and a Second Congregational Church in granite, something gingerbready,
but showy and modish—for there are fashions in architecture as there
are in millinery, and we cut our houses this way this year and that way
the next. And these two churches had half a congregation apiece, and
a full–sized debt, and they lived together in a spirit of Christian
unity, on Capulet and Montague terms. The people of the First Church
called the people of the Second Church the “Sadduceeceders,” because
there was no future for them, and the people of the Second Church
called the people of the First Church the “Pharisee–mes”. And this
went on year after year, through the Winters when the foxes hugged
their holes in the ground within the woods about ’Quawket, through the
Summers when the birds of the air twittered in their nests in the great
elms of Main Street.
If the First Church had a revival, the Second Church had a fair. If the
pastor of the First Church exchanged with a distinguished preacher from
Philadelphia, the organist of the Second Church got a celebrated tenor
from Boston and had a service of song. This system after a time created
a class in both churches known as “the floats,” in contradistinction to
the “pillars.” The floats went from one church to the other according
to the attractions offered. There were, in the end, more floats than
pillars.
The Reverend Mr. Pursly inherited this contest from his predecessor. He
had carried it on for three years. Finally, being a man of logical and
precise mental processes, he called the head men of his congregation
together, and told them what in worldly language might be set down thus:
There was room for one Congregational Church in ’Quawket, and for one
only. The flock must be reunited in the parent fold. To do this a
master stroke was necessary. They must build a Parish House. All of
which was true beyond question—and yet—the church had a debt of $20,000
and a Parish House would cost $15,000.
And now the Reverend Mr. Pursly was sitting at his study window,
wondering why all the rich men _would_ join the Episcopal Church. He
cast down his eyes, and saw a rich man coming up his path who could
readily have given $15,000 for a Parish House, and who might safely
be expected to give $1.50, if he were rightly approached. A shade of
bitterness crept over Mr. Pursly’s professional smile. Then a look of
puzzled wonder took possession of his face. Brother Joash Hitt was
regular in his attendance at church and at prayer–meeting; but he kept
office–hours in his religion, as in everything else, and never before
had he called upon his pastor.
Two minutes later, the minister was nervously shaking hands with
Brother Joash Hitt.
“I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Hitt,” he stammered, “very glad—I’m—I’m—“
“S’prised?” suggested Mr. Hitt, grimly.
“Won’t you sit down?” asked Mr. Pursly.
Mr. Hitt sat down in the darkest corner of the room, and glared at
his embarrassed host. He was a huge old man, bent, heavily–built,
with grizzled dark hair, black eyes, skin tanned to a mahogany brown,
a heavy square under–jaw, and big leathery dew–laps on each side of
it that looked as hard as the jaw itself. Brother Joash had been all
things in his long life—sea–captain, commission merchant, speculator,
slave–dealer even, people said—and all things to his profit. Of late
years he had turned over his capital in money–lending, and people said
that his great claw–like fingers had grown crooked with holding the
tails of his mortgages.
A silence ensued. The pastor looked up and saw that Brother Joash had
no intention of breaking it.
“Can I do any thing for you, Mr. Hitt?” inquired Mr. Pursly.
“Ya–as,” said the old man. “Ye kin. I b’leeve you gin’lly git sump’n’
over ’n’ above your sellery when you preach a fun’l sermon?”
“Well, Mr. Hitt, it—yes—it is customary.”
“How much?”
“The usual honorarium is—h’m—ten dollars.”
“The—_whut_?”
“The—the fee.”
“Will you write me one for ten dollars?”
“Why—why—” said the minister, nervously; “I didn’t know that any one
had—had died—“
“There hain’t no one died, ez I know. It’s _my_ fun’l sermon I want.”
“But, my dear Mr. Hitt, I trust you are not—that you won’t—that—“
“Life’s a rope of sand, parson—you’d ought to know that—nor we don’t
none of us know when it’s goin’ to fetch loost. I’m most ninety now,
’n’ I don’t cal’late to git no younger.”
“Well,” said Mr. Pursly, faintly smiling; “when the time _does_ come—“
“No, _sir_!” interrupted Mr. Hitt, with emphasis; “when the time
_doos_ come, I won’t have no use for it. Th’ ain’t no sense in the way
most folks is berrid. Whut’s th’ use of puttin’ a man into a mahog’ny
coffin, with a silver plate big’s a dishpan, an’ preachin’ a fun’l
sermon over him, an’ costin’ his estate good money, when he’s only
a poor deef, dumb, blind fool corpse, an’ don’t get no good of it?
_Naow_, I’ve be’n to the undertaker’s, an’ hed my coffin made under my
own sooperveesion—good wood, straight grain, no knots—nuthin’ fancy,
but doorable. I’ve hed my tombstun cut, an’ chose my text to put onto
it—’we brung nuthin’ into the world, an’ it is certain we can take
nuthin’ out’—an’ now I want my fun’l sermon, jes’ as the other folks is
goin’ to hear it who don’t pay nuthin’ for it. Kin you hev it ready for
me this day week?”
“I suppose so,” said Mr. Pursly, weakly.
“I’ll call fer it,” said the old man. “Heern some talk about a Perrish
House, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” began Mr. Pursly, his face lighting up.
“‘Tain’t no sech a bad _i_dee,” remarked Brother Joash. “Wal, good
day.” And he walked off before the minister could say any thing more.
* * * * *
One week later, Mr. Pursly again sat in his study, looking at Brother
Joash, who had a second time settled himself in the dark corner.
It had been a terrible week for Mr. Pursly. He and his conscience, and
his dream of the Parish House, had been shut up together working over
that sermon, and waging a war of compromises. The casualties in this
war were all on the side of the conscience.
“Read it!” commanded Brother Joash. The minister grew pale. This was
more than he had expected. He grew pale and then red and then pale
again.
“Go ahead!” said Brother Joash.
“Brethren,” began Mr. Pursly, and then he stopped short. His pulpit
voice sounded strange in his little study.
“Go ahead!” said Brother Joash.
“We are gathered together here to–day to pay a last tribute of respect
and affection—“
“Clk!” There was a sound like the report of a small pistol. Mr. Pursly
looked up. Brother Joash regarded him with stern intentness.
“—to one of the oldest and most prominent citizens of our town, a
pillar of our church, and a monument of the civic virtues of probity,
industry and wisdom, a man in whom we all took pride, and—“
“Clk!” Mr. Pursly looked up more quickly this time, and a faint
suggestion of an expression just vanishing from Mr. Hitt’s lips
awakened in his unsuspicious breast a horrible suspicion that Brother
Joash had chuckled.
“—whose like we shall not soon again see in our midst. The children on
the streets will miss his familiar face—“
“Say!” broke in Brother Joash, “how’d it be for a delegation of child’n
to foller the remains, with flowers or sump’n’? They’d volunteer if you
give ’em the hint, wouldn’t they?”
“It would be—unusual,” said the minister.
“All right,” assented Mr. Hitt, “only an _i_dee of mine. Thought they
might like it. Go ahead!”
Mr. Pursly went ahead, haunted by an agonizing fear of that awful
chuckle, if chuckle it was. But he got along without interruption until
he reached a casual and guarded allusion to the widows and orphans
without whom no funeral oration is complete. Here the metallic voice of
Brother Joash rang out again.
“Say! Ef the widders and orphans send a wreath—or a Gates–Ajar—_ef_
they do, mind ye!—you’ll hev it put a–top of the coffin, where folks’ll
see it, wun’t ye?”
“Certainly,” said the Reverend Mr. Pursly, hastily; “his charities were
unostentatious, as was the whole tenor of his life. In these days of
spendthrift extravagance, our young men may well—“
“Say!” Brother Joash broke in once more. “Ef any one wuz to git
up right there, an’ say that I wuz the derndest meanest, miserly,
penurious, parsimonious old hunks in ’Quawket, you wouldn’t let him
talk like that, would ye?”
“Unquestionably not, Mr. Hitt!” said the minister, in horror.
“Thought not. On’y thet’s whut I heern one o’ your deacons say about
me the other day. Didn’t know I heern him, but I did. I thought you
wouldn’t allow no such talk as that. Go ahead!”
“I must ask you, Mr. Hitt,” Mr. Pursly said, perspiring at every pore,
“to refrain from interruptions—or I—I really—can not continue.”
“All right,” returned Mr. Hitt, with perfect calmness. “Continner.”
Mr. Pursly continued to the bitter end, with no further interruption
that called for remonstrance. There were soft inarticulate sounds that
seemed to him to come from Brother Joash’s dark corner. But it might
have been the birds in the _Ampelopsis Veitchii_ that covered the house.
Brother Joash expressed no opinion, good or ill, of the address. He
paid his ten dollars, in one–dollar bills, and took his receipt. But as
the anxious minister followed him to the door, he turned suddenly and
said:
“You was talkin’ ’bout a Perrish House?”
“Yes—“
“Kin ye keep a secret?”
“I hope so—yes, certainly, Mr. Hitt.”
“The’ ’ll be one.”
* * * * *
“I feel,” said the Reverend Mr. Pursly to his wife, “as if I had
carried every stone of that Parish House on my shoulders and put it in
its place. Can you make me a cup of tea, my dear?”
* * * * *
[Illustration]
The Summer days had begun to grow chill, and the great elms of ’Quawket
were flecked with patches and spots of yellow, when, early one
morning, the meagre little charity–boy whose duty it was to black Mr.
Hitt’s boots every day—it was a luxury he allowed himself in his old
age—rushed, pale and frightened, into a neighboring grocery, and cried:
“Mist’ Hitt’s dead!”
“Guess not,” said the grocer, doubtfully. “Brother Hitt’s gut th’ Old
Nick’s agency for ’Quawket, ’n’ I ain’t heerd th’t he’s been discharged
for inattention to dooty.”
“He’s layin’ there smilin’,” said the boy.
“Smilin’?” repeated the grocer. “Guess I’d better go ’n’ see.”
In very truth, Brother Joash lay there in his bed, dead and cold, with
a smile on his hard old lips, the first he had ever worn. And a most
sardonic and discomforting smile it was.
* * * * *
The Reverend Mr. Pursly read Mr. Hitt’s funeral address for the second
time, in the First Congregational Church of ’Quawket. Every seat was
filled; every ear was attentive. He stood on the platform, and below
him, supported on decorously covered trestles, stood the coffin that
enclosed all that was mortal of Brother Joash Hitt. Mr. Pursly read
with his face immovably set on the line of the clock in the middle of
the choir–gallery railing. He did not dare to look down at the sardonic
smile in the coffin below him; he did not dare to let his eye wander to
the dark left–hand corner of the church, remembering the dark left–hand
corner of his own study. And as he repeated each complimentary,
obsequious, flattering platitude, a hideous, hysterical fear grew
stronger and stronger within him that suddenly he would be struck dumb
by the “clk!” of that mirthless chuckle that had sounded so much like a
pistol–shot. His voice was hardly audible in the benediction.
* * * * *
The streets of ’Quawket were at their gayest and brightest when the
mourners drove home from the cemetery at the close of the noontide
hour. The mourners were principally the deacons and elders of the First
Church. The Reverend Mr. Pursly lay back in his seat with a pleasing
yet fatigued consciousness of duty performed and martyrdom achieved. He
was exhausted, but humbly happy. As they drove along, he looked with
a speculative eye on one or two eligible sites for the Parish House.
His companion in the carriage was Mr. Uriel Hankinson, Brother Joash’s
lawyer, whose entire character had been aptly summed up by one of his
fellow–citizens in conferring on him the designation of “a little Joash
for one cent.”
[Illustration]
“Parson,” said Mr. Hankinson, breaking a long silence, “that was a
fust–rate oration you made.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” replied Mr. Pursly, his chronic smile
broadening.
“You treated the deceased right handsome, considerin’,” went on the
lawyer Hankinson.
“Considering what?” inquired Mr. Pursly, in surprise.
“Considerin’—well, _considerin’_—“ replied Mr. Hankinson, with a wave
of his hand. “You must feel to be reel disapp’inted ’bout the Parish
House, I sh’d s’pose.”
“The Parish House?” repeated the Reverend Mr. Pursly, with a cold chill
at his heart, but with dignity in his voice. “You may not be aware, Mr.
Hankinson, that I have Mr. Hitt’s promise that we should have a Parish
House. And Mr. Hitt was—was—a man of his word.” This conclusion sounded
to his own ears a trifle lame and impotent.
“Guess you had his promise that there _should_ be a Parish House,”
corrected the lawyer, with a chuckle that might have been a faint echo
of Brother Joash’s.
“Well?”
“Well—the Second Church gits it. I draw’d his will. Good day, parson,
I’ll ’light here. Air’s kind o’ cold, ain’t it?”
[Illustration]
THE LOVE–LETTERS
OF SMITH.
[Illustration: “_A peculiar gritting noise made her look down._”]
THE LOVE–LETTERS OF SMITH.