When David and Mary Bell reached the church the services had
begun, and they heard the refrain of a hallelujah hymn as they
were crossing Harmon Andrews' field. David Bell left his wife at
the platform and drove to the horse-shed.
Mrs. Bell unwound the scarf from her bonnet and shook the frost
crystals from it. In the porch Flora Jane Fletcher and her
sister, Mrs. Harmon Andrews, were talking in low whispers.
Presently Flora Jane put out her lank, cashmere-gloved hand and
plucked Mrs. Bell's shawl.
"Mary, is the elder going to testify to-night?" she asked, in a
shrill whisper.
Mrs. Bell winced. She would have given much to be able to answer
"Yes," but she had to say stiffly,
"I don't know."
Flora Jane lifted her chin.
"Well, Mrs. Bell, I only asked because every one thinks it is
strange he doesn't--and an elder, of all people. It looks as if
he didn't think himself a Christian, you know. Of course, we all
know better, but it LOOKS that way. If I was you, I'd tell him
folks was talking about it. Mr. Bentley says it is hindering
the full success of the meetings."
Mrs. Bell turned on her tormentor in swift anger. She might
resent her husband's strange behavior herself, but nobody else
should dare to criticize him to her.
"I don't think you need to worry yourself about the elder, Flora
Jane," she said bitingly. "Maybe 'tisn't the best Christians
that do the most talking about it always.
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