"I've got sickness here," she would say, standing in the doorway confronting them. "He's too weak to see anybody. I guess I won't ask you in."
But one day, the minister appeared, his fat gray horse climbing painfully up from the Gully Road. It was a warm afternoon; and as soon as Mary saw him, she went out of her house, and closed the door behind her. When he had tied his horse, he came toward her, brushing the dust of the road from his irreproachable black. He was a new minister, and very particular. Mary shook hands with him, and then seated herself on the step.
"Won't you set down here?" she asked. "I've got sickness, an' I can't have talkin' any nearer. I'm glad it's a warm day."
The minister looked at the step, and then at Mary. He felt as if his dignity had been mildly assaulted, and he preferred to stand.
"I should like to offer prayer for the young man," he said. "I had hoped to see him."
Mary smiled at him in that impersonal way of hers.
"I don't let anybody see him," said she. "I guess we shall all have to pray by ourselves."
The minister was somewhat nettled. He was young enough to feel the slight to his official position; and moreover, there were things which his rigid young wife, primed by the wonder of the town, had enjoined upon him to say. He flushed to the roots of his smooth brown hair.
"I suppose you know," said he, "that you're taking a very peculiar stand."
Mary turned her head, to listen. She thought she heard her patient breathing, and her mind was with him.