Happy, happy, happy, happy,
Cross the river of Jordan,
Happy in the Lord.”
McTavish listened in wonderment, then with a chuckle made to pass on. The woman bade him stay a moment.
“I’m not just sure I done right in dancin’ in that Scotch four,” she faltered. “Mr. Smythe seems to think dancin’ wrong, same’s smokin’ and such.”
“Humph, well now, it seems as Smythe’s been preachin’ quite a lot to you, widder. See him often?”
“Pretty often,” answered the widow slowly. “He’s been over to my place some three or four times during the last few days. He’s a very nice man, and a good livin’ one.”
McTavish scratched his head and frowned.
“Humph,” he nodded, “quite so, widder.”
“Mr. Smythe is great at ‘leadin’ people to the light,’ as he puts it,” smiled the woman, wiping the pumpkin seeds off her hands against the side of the pan. “He’s converted me to true Christianity. He learnt me that hymn, ‘Cross the River of Jordan,’ that I’ve just sung.”