The name of Oldfield sounded clearly on the air.
"Now," said the minister, "let us pray." The petition went forth, and
Mr. Oldfield stood brooding there, his thoughts running back through a
long chain of ancestry to the Almighty, Who is the fount of all.
When heads were covered again, and this little world began to surge
into the church, young Nick's Hattie moved closer to her husband and
shot out a sibilant whisper:--
"Did you know that?--about the Flat-Iron Lot?"
Young Nick shook his head. He was entirely dazed.
"Well," continued Hattie, full of awe, "I guess I never was nearer my
end than when I let myself be go-between for Freeman Henry. I wonder
father let me get out alive."
The minister's address was very short and unpretending. He dwelt on the
sacredness of the past, and all its memories, and closed by saying
that, while we need not shrink from signs of progress, we should guard
against tampering with those ancient landmarks which serve as beacon
lights, to point the brighter way. Hearing that, every man steeled his
heart against Memory-of-Me clocks, and resolved to vote against them.
Then the minister explained that, since he had been unable to prepare a
suitable address, Mr.
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