“Will you and Ben come to the hall to-night?”
“Why—mebbe we will.”
“Ben has quite got over his trouble?”
“Ah, Mary helped him a deal.”
“Mary will get a good husband.”
“She will that. Ben Craven is good at home. You may measure a man by his home conduct, it’s t’ right place to draw t’ line, you may depend upon it. Tak’ a bit o’ Christmas loaf, and go your ways back now, dearies, for we’ll be heving a storm varry soon.”
They went merrily out, and about fifty yards away met Mr. North. He also looked very happy, and his lips were moving, as if he was silently singing. In fact, he was very happy; he had been giving gifts to the poor, and the blessing of many “ready to perish” was upon him. He thanked Phyllis and Elizabeth for the Christmas offerings sent to his chapel; and told them of a special service that was to be held on the first Sunday of the new year. “I should like you to be there, Miss Fontaine,” he said, “for I think this peculiar service of Methodism is not held in America.”
His happiness had conquered his timidity. He looked almost handsome, as he gave them at parting “God’s blessing,” and the wish for a “Merry Christmas.”
“I wish you would ask him to dinner, Elizabeth?”
“Certainly, I will. I should like to do it.”