Part 7 (1/2)

”David, please,” coaxed Carol.

”Goosie! Who but a wife would make an invalid of a man because he sneezes?” David laughed, and Carol said no more.

But a few minutes later, as she was carefully arranging a soft fur hat over her hair and David stood patiently holding her coat, there came a light tap at the door.

”It is Mr. Daniels,” said Carol. ”I know his knock. Come in, Father Daniels. I knew it was you.”

The old elder from next door, his gray hair standing in every direction from the wind he had encountered bareheaded, his little gray eyes twinkling bright, opened the door.

”You crazy kids aren't going down to that Hollow a night like this,” he protested.

They nodded, laughing.

”Well, David can't go,” he said decidedly. ”That's a bad cold he's got, and it's been hanging on too long. I can't go myself for I can't walk, but I'll call up my son-in-law and make him go. So take off your hat, Parson, and-- No you come over and read the Bible to me while the young folks go gadding. I need some ministerial attention myself,--I'm wavering in my faith.”

”You, wavering?” demanded David. ”If no one ever wavered any harder than you do, Daniels, there wouldn't be much of a job for the preachers. And you say for me to let Carol go with d.i.c.k? What are you thinking of? I tell you when any one goes gadding with Carol, I am the man.” Then he added seriously: ”But really, I've got to go to-night.

We're just getting hold of the folks down there and we can't let go.

Otherwise, I should make Carol stay in. But the boys in her cla.s.s are so fond of her that I know she is needed as much as I am.”

”But that cough--”

”Oh, that cough is all right. It will go when spring comes. I just haven't had a chance to rest my throat. I feel fine to-night. Come on in, Baldwin. Yes, we are ready. Still snowing? Well, a little snow-- Here, Carol, you must wear your gaiters. I'll buckle them.”

A little later they set out, the three of them, heads lowered against the driving snow. There were no cars running across country, and indeed not even sidewalks, since it was an unfrequented part of the town with no residences for many blocks until one reached the little, tumbledown section in the Hollow. Here and there were heavy drifts, and now and then an unexpected ditch in the path gave Carol a tumble into the snow, but, laughing and breathless, she was pulled out again and they plodded heavily on.

In spite of the inclement weather, the tiny house--called a mission by grace of speech--was well and noisily filled. Over sixty people were crowded into the two small rooms, most of them boys between the ages of twelve and sixteen, laughing, coughing, dragging their feet, shoving the heavy benches, dropping song-books. They greeted the snow-covered trio with a royal roar, and a few minutes later were singing, ”Yes, we'll gather at the river,” at the tops of their discordant voices.

Carol sat at the wheezy organ, painfully pounding out the rhythmic notes,--no musician she, but willing to do anything in a pinch. And although at the pretty little church up in the Heights she never attempted to lift her voice in song, down at the mission she felt herself right in her element and sang with gay good-will, happy in the knowledge that she came as near holding to the tune as half the others.

Most of the evening was spent in song, David standing in the narrow doorway between the two rooms, nodding this way, nodding that, in a futile effort to keep a semblance of time among the boisterous wors.h.i.+pers. A short reading from the Bible, a very brief prayer, a short, conversational story-talk from David, and the meeting broke up in wild clamor.

Then back through the driving snow they made their way, considering the evening well worth all the exertion it had required.

Once inside the cozy manse, David and Carol hastily changed into warm dressing-gowns and slippers and lounged lazily before the big fireplace, sipping hot coffee, and talking, always talking of the work,--what must be done to-morrow, what could be arranged for Sunday, the young people's meeting, the primary department, the mission study cla.s.s.

And Carol brought out the big bottle and administered the designated teaspoonful.

”For you must quit coughing, David,” she said. ”You ruined two good points last Sunday by clearing your throat in the middle of a phrase.

And it isn't so easy making points as that.”

”Aren't you tired of hearing me preach, Carol? We've been married a whole year now. Aren't you finding my sermons monotonous?”

”David,” she said earnestly, resting her head against his shoulder, partly for weariness, partly for the pleasure of feeling the rise and fall of his breast,--”when you go up into the pulpit you look so white and good, like an apostle or a good angel, it almost frightens me. I think, 'Oh, no, he isn't my husband, not really,--he is just a good angel G.o.d sent to keep me out of mischief.' And while you are preaching I never think, 'He is mine.' I always think, 'He is G.o.d's.'”

Tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and David drew her close in his arms.

”Do you, sweetheart? It seems a terrible thing to stand up there before a houseful, of people, most of them good, and clean, and full of faith, and try to direct their steps in the broader road. I sometimes feel that men are not fit for it. There ought to be angels from Heaven.”

”But there are angels from Heaven watching over them, David, guiding them, showing them how. I believe good white angels are guiding every true minister,--not the bad ones-- Oh, I know a lot about ministers, honey,--proud, ambitious, selfish, vainglorious, hypocritical, even amorous, a lot of them,--but there are others, true ones,--you, David, and some more. They just have to grow together until harvest, and then the false ones will be dug up and dumped in the garbage.”

For a while they were silent.