"What are you going to do, Wesley?" whispered Fanny.
He gazed gravely down into her lovely eyes.
_"Dearest,"_ he whispered back, "trust me! It is time we laid this
uneasy ghost; don't you think so?"
By now the large room was well filled with men, women and children.
The ice cream was being passed around when suddenly the clanging
sound of a dinner bell, vigorously operated by Joe Whittle, arrested
attention.
"The minister's got something to say! The minister's got something to
say!" shouted the boy.
Wesley Elliot, standing apart, lifted his hand in token of silence,
then he spoke:
"I have taken this somewhat unusual method of asking your attention
to a matter which has for many years past enlisted your sympathies,"
he began: "I refer to the Bolton affair."
The sound of breath sharply indrawn and the stir of many feet died
into profound silence as the minister went on, slowly and with
frequent pauses:
"Most of you are already familiar with the sordid details. It is not
necessary for me to go back to the day, now nearly nineteen years
ago, when many of you found yourselves unexpectedly impoverished
because the man you trusted had defaulted.... There was much
suffering in Brookville that winter, and since.... When I came to
this parish I found it--sick. Because of the crime of Andrew Bolton?
No. I repeat the word with emphasis: _No!_ Brookville was sick,
despondent, dull, gloomy and impoverished--not because of Andrew
Bolton's crime; but because Brookville had never forgiven Andrew
Bolton.
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