“Don’t be silly. You know what I mean. There is something awfully wrong. I can’t help noticing it.”
“What makes you think that, Clemmie?”
“What I heard this afternoon.... And, you know, the most of ’em knew me, but none excepting Mrs. Beaver knew where I was staying, and she didn’t tell. She come over and set down by me, different from what she used to be, quiet and real refined.”
“Eadie Beaver quiet, you say? Well, I cal’late the million is coming, sartin sure.”
“Millennium or no millennium, that’s the truth. I was kind of ’feared at first that she wasn’t real well.”
“She’d be a real cur’osity in this here new state of hers,” mused the Captain.
“Well, I begun to hear things about him,”––she pointed toward the closed door,––“and Mrs. Beaver was that indignant that she didn’t know what to do. From all I heard, it seems the minister has been doing things he has no right to do, fighting and the like. Then, too,”––came in an awed tone,––“he ain’t orthodox. He’s preaching all sorts of new-fangled ideas that he shouldn’t mention in the pulpit, and though you don’t know it, Josiah, that is hairsay! That is worse than killing a man, because it sends their souls to hell.”
“If I was you, Clemmie, I’d wait and judge his preaching for myself. You ain’t heard him yet.”
Miss Pipkin agreed to the fairness of the Captain’s proposition, but she was still troubled.