"Sorry, but not to-day. It would spoil the mystery. Come along with me, Little Seeker After Thrills, I want to walk home with you. I go your very way."
"I usually stay and shake hands with the members, but it will be fun to slip away for once. Then they will be gladder to see me to-night."
So they hurried away, and Doris noticed that while many nodded to her, no one had a word of familiar friendliness for him—so she knew he was a stranger to all. It seemed odd that he could remain unknown in such a little town—he must live very quietly and to himself. He could not be a teacher, she was sure of that, for teachers, like "we preachers," are honor bound to make friends.
"Has the butterfly of the fold been in any new mischief since the dance?"
"Call it a party. We preachers do not go to dances. No, indeed, she hasn't. Didn't you notice how sensible she looked this morning? She is really very good, if she only takes time to think. She decided of her own accord and free will not to dance any more at all."
"Then since it was her own free will, I suppose you feel it was predestined, don't you?"
"Perhaps," said Doris politely, for she never could keep that free-will-predestination puzzle quite straight in her mind—though she was very sure father was right about it.
"And what have you been doing since that night?"
"Washing, and ironing, and cooking, and helping the girls with their lessons, and scolding father, and patching. What have you been doing?"