The moon was pretty bright, that
summer. There were more flowers blooming than common. It must have been
a good year. And I wrote my sermon lying out in the pine woods, down
where you used to sit hemming on your things. And I thought it was the
Church, but do all I could, it was a girl--or an angel!"
"No, no!" cried Mary Ellen, in bitterness of entreaty.
"And then I read the sermon to you under the pines, and you stopped
sewing, and looked off into the trees; and you said 'twas beautiful.
But I carried it to old Parson Sibley that night, and I can see just
how he looked sitting there in his study, with his great spectacles
pushed up on his forehead, and his hand drumming on a book. He had the
dictionary put in a certain place on his table because he found he'd
got used to drumming on the Bible, and he was a very particular man.
And when I got through reading the sermon, his face wrinkled all up,
though he didn't laugh out loud, and he came over to me and put his
hand on my shoulder. 'William,' says he, 'you go home and write a
doctrinal sermon, the stiffest you can. _This one's about a girl_. You
might give it to Mary Ellen North for a wedding-present.'"
The parson had grown almost gay under the vivifying influence of
memory.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103