SERENE’S RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE; AN INLAND STORY
Serene and young Jessup, the school-teacher, were leaning over the front gate together in the warm summer dusk.
“See them sparkin’ out there?” inquired Serene’s father, standing at the door with his hands in his pockets, and peering out speculatively.
“Now, father, when you know that ain’t Serene’s line.”
It was Mrs. Sayles who spoke. Perhaps there was the echo of a faint regret in her voice, for she wished to see her daughter “respectit like the lave”; but “sparkin’” had never been Serene’s line.
“Serene wouldn’t know how,” said her big brother.
“There’s other things that’s a worse waste o’ time,” observed Mr. Sayles, meditatively, “and one on ’em’s ’Doniram Jessup’s ever-lastin’ talk-talk-talkin’ to no puppus. He’s none so smart if he does teach school. He’d do better on the farm with his father.”
“He’s more’n three hundred dollars ahead, and goin’ to strike out for himself, he says,” observed the big brother, admiringly.
“Huh! My son, I’ve seen smart young men strike out for themselves ’fore ever you was born, and I’ve seen their fathers swim out after ’em—and sink,” said Mr. Sayles, oracularly.
Outside the June twilight was deepening, but Serene and the school-teacher still leaned tranquilly over the picket-gate. The fragrance of the lemon-lilies that grew along the fence was in the air, and over Serene’s left shoulder, if she had turned to look, she would have seen the slight yellow crescent of the new moon sliding down behind the trees.