At this I saw Mrs. Minister look up at her husband with such a light in her eyes as any man might well barter his life for—I could not keep my own eyes from pure beauty of it.
I knew too what this defiance meant. It meant that this little family was placing its all upon the altar—even the pitiful coins for which they had skimped and saved for months for a particular purpose. Talk of the heroism of the men who charged with Pickett at Gettysburg! Here was a courage higher and whiter than that; here was a courage that dared to fight alone.
As for Mr. Nash, the face of that Chief Pharisee was a study. Nothing is so paralyzing to a rich man as to find suddenly that his money will no longer command him any advantage. Like all hard-shelled, practical people, Mr. Nash could only dominate in a world which recognized the same material supremacy that he recognized. Any one who insisted upon flying was lost to Mr. Nash.
The minister pushed the little pile of coins toward him.
“Take it, Mr. Nash,” said he.
At that Mr. Nash rose hastily.
“I will not,” he said gruffly.
He paused, and looked at the minister with a strange expression in his small round eyes—was it anger, or was it fear, or could it have been admiration?
“If you want to waste your time on fiddlin' farmers' meetings—a man that knows as little of farmin' as you do—why go ahead for all o' me. But don't count me in.”
He turned, reached for his hat, and then went out of the door into the darkness.