She had been born into such willing
harmony with natural laws, that this in itself seemed to belong to her
life. It partook rather of the faithfulness of the seasons than of
human tragedy or strenuous overthrow. Even so early she felt great
delight in natural things; and when her heart turned to Jethro Moore,
she had no doubt whatever of the straightness of its path. She trusted
all the primal instincts without knowing she trusted them. She was
thirsty; here was water, and she drank. Jethro was a little older than
she, the son of a minister in a neighboring town. His father had marked
out his plan of life; but Jethro had had enough to do with the church
on hot summer Sundays, when "fourthly" and "sixthly" lulled him into a
pleasing coma, and when even the shimmer of Mrs. Chase's shot silk
failed to awaken his deep eyes to their accustomed delight in fabric
and color. To him, the church was a concrete and very dull institution:
to his father, it was a city set on a hill, whence a shining path led
direct to God's New Jerusalem. Therefore it was easy enough for the boy
to say he preferred business, and that he wanted uncle Silas to take
him into his upholstery shop; and he never, so long as he lived,
understood his father's tragic silence over the choice.
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