On my way to church that night, I could not help feeling that I must have misunderstood my aunt. I chided myself for not having read her aright. I began to realize that there was a deep under-current to her nature—perhaps one of love?
It was a thought like that that proved my best girding for the evening sermon. I sat in the pulpit while the church filled; for this evening service was always well attended. The choir of mill boys and girls, led by a patriarchal man whose face and hands were white as fuller’s earth, sang stirring anthems in which we saw the Palestinian shepherds in mute adoration of the stable miracle. The congregation sang, with great unction, another Christmas theme. Martin’s head towered at the rear; but I could find no trace of Aunt Millie.
After the service, and the greetings of old-time friends, I looked about for Martin and Aunt Millie. I saw neither. It was somewhat late when I arrived home. Aunt Millie was waiting for me with a troubled face.
“You managed to hide yourself pretty well!” I laughed.
She cried as she confessed:
“I didn’t go, Al. I didn’t hear you at all. That’s the plain truth!”
“Why, I thought I saw you getting ready when I left,” I said.
“Yes, I was; but I didn’t hear you preach. I couldn’t!”
“Oh,” I laughed, “you couldn’t? What was the matter?”
“I started out; but on the way I lost heart. I was afraid that I might cry out in church, with you preaching, lad. Besides, I’m not a dissenter. I was passing the Episcopal church and went in there, instead. I felt more at home. You can understand, can’t you, lad?”