daughter lagging behind him with covert eyes upon Wollaston Lee, went
out of the vestry, a number inquired for his wife. "Oh, she is very
comfortable," he replied, with his cheerful optimism which solaced
him in all vicissitudes, except the single one of actually witnessing
the sorrow and distress of those who belonged to him.

"I heard," said one man, who was noted in the place for his
outspokenness, which would have been brutal had it not been for his
naivete--"I heard she wasn't going to get out again."

"Nonsense," replied Harry Edgham.

"Then she is?"

"Of course she is. She would have come to meeting to-night if it had
not been so damp."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said the man, with a curious
congratulation which gave the impression of disappointment.

Little Maria Edgham and her father went up the village street; Harry
Edgham walked quite swiftly. "I guess we had better hurry along," he
observed, "your mother is all alone."

Maria tagged behind him. Her father had to stop at a grocery-store on
the corner of the street where they lived, to get a bag of peaches
which he had left there. "I got some peaches on my way," he
explained, "and I didn't want to carry them to church. I thought your
mother might like them. The doctor said she might eat fruit." With
that he darted into the store with the agility of a boy.