As we were now within sight of the houses of the village, I told James that I guessed we’d better postpone further melody until our return, as we might be taken for a circus, rather than a concert, and the rest of the way was made in silence.
While Ethel was buying clothes for Minerva, I, by the advice of James, sought out Deacon Fotherby of the Second Congregational Church.
He presided over the destinies of a shoestore, and when I went in he was trying to force a number eight shoe on a number nine foot of a Cinderella of uncertain age, whose face was red—from his exertions.
I waited patiently about until the good deacon got a larger shoe, called it a number seven (may the recording angel pardon him) and slipped it on the foot of Cinderella, who departed simpering.
He came up to me in a business-like way.
“Is this Deacon Fotherby?”
“My name is Fotherby, but I sell shoes week days.”
“Well, Mr. Fotherby, I don’t want to buy any shoes to-day, but I do want to know whether you are interested in the Hurlbert Home.”
The deacon’s manner underwent a remarkable change. Up to that time he had been the attentive salesman. Now his face softened, he motioned me to a seat and sat down beside me.
“Interested? I’m wrapped up in it. What do you want? To help it or be helped by it?”