our valley think his heavy crops come from his six days of labor, and
some from his one day of preaching. He says that the one day does it
all; but he keeps on getting out with the sun on the other six. I knew
that the poor girl from Kansas must get up with the sun, too, for her
uncle was not the man to brook any dawdling. I knew, further, that
Sunday could not be a day of rest for her, for of all his people she
would have to listen to his preaching.

That was why I murmured in a commiserative tone, "Luther's niece--poor
girl!"

"You needn't pity her," Tim snapped. "She knows a heap more about the
world than you or I do. She--"

"She is not a Dunkard, then?" I interrupted.

"Not a bit," Tim answered. "I don't know what she was in Kansas, but
Luther has preached so much on worldliness and the vanity of fine
clothes that it wouldn't look right for his niece to go flaunting
frills and furbelows about the valley. That plain gray gown is a
concession to the old man. He'd like her to wear a prayer-cap and a
poke bonnet, I guess, but she has a mind of her own. I think she drew
the line there."

She had not given up so much, I thought. Perhaps in her self-denial
there was method, and her simple garb became her best. Even a
prayer-cap might frame her face the fairest; but she must know. And I
had seen that in the flash of her eye and the toss of her head that
told me that a hundred Luther Wardens, a hundred Dunkard preacher
uncles, could not abate her beauty one jot.