Presently, down a cross street, she spied a familiar figure, tall and bent, with a head of bristling hair, and a high silk hat,—it was Billy, and she instantly ran to meet him. Billy could never be induced to attend the little Episcopal chapel where Mrs. Maxwell went, but "favoured his own meetin'-'us," he said, which was the little white Unitarian church by the post-office.
"Folks didn't set easy in Mrs. Maxwell's church," he often said, "and he didn't like to see a minister in a white petticoat, with a black ribbund around his neck." It didn't seem respectful to him to have so much to do with the service. But Billy was very devout in his own way, and never missed service nor Wednesday evening prayer-meeting in his own church.
"H'lo, Billy!" cried Cricket, beaming. "Don't you want to carry my prayer-book? I want to get those wild roses."
Billy was only too delighted.
"Had a good sermon?" pursued Cricket, in very grown-up fashion, as they walked along, side by side, after the roses were secured.
"Oh, very decent, very decent," answered Billy, who always nodded from the text to "Finally."
"What was it about?" went on Cricket, feeling that she must give a Sunday tone to the conversation.
Billy took off his hat and scratched his head, to assist his ideas.
"'Bout—'bout very good things," he said, vaguely. "We sang a pretty hymn, too."
"Did you? What was it?"