“No, but your eyes and cheeks did. Well, it’s none of my business, and there’s no reason that I know of 34 why the Devil should have all the bright colors, and embroideries, and things. Are you High Church?”
Maxwell hesitated a moment and replied:
“What do you mean by ‘High Church?’”
“The last rector we had was awful high.” Hepsey smiled with reminiscent amusement.
“How so?”
“We suspected he didn’t wear no pants durin’ service.”
“How very extraordinary! Is that a symptom of ritualism?”
“Well, you see he wore a cassock under his surplice, and none of our parsons had ever done that before. The Senior Warden got real stirred up about it, and told Mr. Whittimore that our rectors always wore pants durin’ service. Mr. Whittimore pulled up his cassock and showed the Warden that he had his pants on. The Warden told him it was an awful relief to his mind, as he considered goin’ without pants durin’ service the enterin’ wedge for Popish tricks; and if things went on like that, nobody knew where we would land. Then some of the women got talkin’, and said that the rector practiced celibacy, and that some one should warn him that the parish wouldn’t stand for any more innovations, and he’d better look out. So one day, Virginia Bascom, the 35 Senior Warden’s daughter, told him what was being said about him. The parson just laughed at Ginty, and said that celibacy was his misfortune, not his fault; and that he hoped to overcome it in time. That puzzled her some, and she came to me and asked what celibacy was. When I told her it was staying unmarried, like St. Paul—my, but wasn’t she mad, though! You ought to have seen her face. She was so mortified that she wouldn’t speak to me for a week. Well, I guess I’ve gossiped enough for now. I must go and make my biscuits for supper. If I can help you any, just call out.”
