the road.

"You saw that painted Jezebel to-night, and"----stopping
abruptly.

She had not heard him, and he followed her doggedly, with an
occasional snort or grunt or other inarticulate damn at the
obstinate mud. She stopped at last, with a quick gasp. Looking
at her, he chafed her limp hands,--his huge, uncouth face growing
pale. When she was better, he said, gravely,--

"I want you, Margret. Not at home, child. I want to show you
something."

He turned with her suddenly off the main road into a by-path,
helping her along, watching her stealthily, but going on with his
disjointed, bearish growls. If it stung her from her pain,
vexing her, he did not care.

"I want to show you a bit of hell: outskirt. You're in a fit
state: it'll do you good. I'm minister there. The clergy can't
attend to it just now: they're too busy measuring God's truth by
the States'--Rights doctrine, or the Chicago Platform.
Consequence, religion yields to majorities. Are you able? It's
only a step."

She went on indifferently. The night was breathless and dark.
Black, wet gusts dragged now and then through the skyless fog,
striking her face with a chill. The Doctor quit talking,
hurrying her, watching her anxiously. They came at last to the