Why, he can't even walk decently. Prison is written all over
him. Thank God, she doesn't seem to see it!"
"I'm so glad you told me, Jim," said Ellen gently.
"You won't say a word about this, will you, Ellen?" he asked
anxiously. "I can depend on you?"
"Give me a little credit for decency and common sense," replied
Ellen.
Jim bent over the wheel and kissed her.
Chapter XIX
Rain was falling in torrents, slanting past the windows of the old
parsonage in long gray lines, gurgling up between loosened panes, and
drip-dropping resoundingly in the rusty pan the minister had set
under a broken spot in the ceiling. Upstairs a loosened shutter
banged intermittently under the impact of the wind, which howled
past, to lose itself with great commotion in the tops of the tall
evergreens in the churchyard. It was the sort of day when untoward
events, near and far, stand out with unpleasant prominence against
the background of one's everyday life. A day in which a man is led,
whether he will or not, to take stock of himself and to balance with
some care the credit and debit sides of his ledger.
Wesley Elliot had been working diligently on his sermon since nine
o'clock that morning, at which hour he had deserted Mrs. Solomon
Black's comfortable tight roof, to walk under the inadequate shelter
of a leaking umbrella to the parsonage.
Three closely written pages in the minister's neat firm handwriting
attested his uninterrupted diligence. At the top of the fourth page
he set a careful numeral, under it wrote "Thirdly," then paused, laid
down his pen, yawned wearily and gazed out at the dripping shrubbery.
Pages:
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213