He kept his eyes
rigorously averted from Isabel's pew, in passing; but when he reached
the pulpit, and began unpinning his heavy gray shawl, he did glance at
her, and his face grew warm. But Isabel did not look at him, and all
through the service she sat with a haughty pose of the head, gazing
down into her lap. When it was over, she waited for no one, since her
sister was not at church, but sped away down the snowy road.
The next day, Isabel stayed after school, and so it was in the wintry
twilight that she walked home, guarded by the few among her flock who
had been kept to learn the inner significance of common fractions.
Approaching her own house, she quickened her steps, for there before
the gate (taken from its hinges and resting for the winter) stood a
blue pung. The horse was dozing, his Roman nose sunken almost to the
snow at his feet. He looked as if he had come to stay. Isabel withdrew
her hand from the persistent little fingers clinging to it.
"Good-night, children," said she. "I guess I've got company. I must
hurry in. Come bright and early to-morrow."
The little group marched away, swathed in comforters, each child
carrying the dinner-pail with an easy swing. Their reddened faces
lighted over the chorusing good-nights, and they kept looking back,
while Isabel ran up the icy path to her own door.
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