morning on our way to the church.

"It rings at night, Willie," I said. "And when I go there is no one
there."

"So do all telephones," he replied briskly. "It's their greatest
weakness."

"Once or twice we have found the thing on the floor in the morning.
It couldn't blow over or knock itself down."

"Probably the cat," he said, with the patient air of a man arguing
with an unreasonable woman. "Of course," he added--we were passing
the churchyard then, dominated by what the village called the Benton
"mosolem"--"there's a chance that those dead-and-gone Bentons resent
anything as modern as a telephone. It might be interesting to see
what they would do to a victrola."

"I'm going to tell you something, Willie," I said. "I am afraid of
the telephone."

He was completely incredulous. I felt rather ridiculous, standing
there in the sunlight of that summer Sabbath and making my confession.
But I did it.

"I am afraid of it," I repeated. "I'm desperately sure you will
never understand. Because I don't. I can hardly force myself to
go to it. I hate the very back corner of the hall where it stands,
I--"