"I do not know that I care to cure it," said I.

Jennie made no response.

Was it not at Bunker Hill that the soldiers were directed to reserve
their fire till the attacking party had exhausted theirs? That is
the way Jennie conducts an argument--when she argues at all, which is
very seldom. She accepted every consideration I had offered against
uniting with the Wheathedge church, and yet I knew her opinion was
not changed; and somehow my own began to waver. I wonder how that
method of arguing would work in the court-room. I mean to try it
some time.

I had exhausted my fire and Jennie was still silent. Silence they
say means consent. But I knew that it did not in her case. It
depends so much upon the kind of silence.

"What do you say Jennie?" said I.

"Well, John," said she slowly and thoughtfully, "perhaps there are
two sides to the question. I don't like to leave the Broadway
Tabernacle. But it seems to me that we have left it. We cannot
attend its prayer-meetings, or go to its Sabbath-school, or worship
with its members on the Sabbath, or even mingle much with its
members in social life. We have left it, and we ought to have
thought of that before we left--not after. Perhaps I am to blame,
John, that I did not think of it more. I did not think of what you
were giving up for me when you took this beautiful home for my
sake."