oven door, a few minutes later.

For answer, Theron threw himself wearily into the big old farm
rocking-chair on the other side of the stove, and shook his head with a
lengthened sigh.

"If it wasn't for that man Gorringe of yours," he said dejectedly, "I
think I should feel like going off--and learning a trade."



CHAPTER IV


On the following Sunday, young Mrs. Ware sat alone in the preacher's pew
through the morning service, and everybody noted that the roses had
been taken from her bonnet. In the evening she was absent, and after
the doxology and benediction several people, under the pretence of
solicitude for her health, tried to pump her husband as to the reason.
He answered their inquiries civilly enough, but with brevity: she
had stayed at home because she did not feel like coming out--this and
nothing more.

The congregation dispersed under a gossip-laden cloud of consciousness
that there must be something queer about Sister Ware. There was a
tolerably general agreement, however, that the two sermons of the day
had been excellent. Not even Loren Pierce's railing commentary on the
pastor's introduction of an outlandish word like "epitome"--clearly
forbidden by the Discipline's injunction to plain language understood of
the people--availed to sap the satisfaction of the majority.