Then she asked me to sit on the sofa and tell her everything I had spoken of in my sermon; not to miss a point, but to give it all. She gave my points commendation, remarking every now and then while her eyes brimmed with tears, “It must have done them good, that!”
Uncle sat at the lower end of the room, saying not a word; but listening, carefully. In the midst of my report the front door opened, and Martin, taking long, determined strides, hurried through the room without looking at any of us, closed the kitchen door with a bang, and left us looking into each other’s faces in bewilderment.
“Maybe he’s mad at something you said, Al. You didn’t chance to look his way and talk of ‘coming to God,’ did you?”
I solemnly averred that I had not been so evangelical as that. My aunt hurried into the kitchen where she lingered for a few moments. On her return she said:
“It’s all right, Al. There’s nothing wrong. He’s just impressed by hearing you preach, that’s all. He said to me, ‘If education can do that, for a fellow, I want some of it!’”
The next morning a heavy snow was falling. Martin would have no work. After breakfast he asked me if I would go into the parlor and have a talk, he wanted to ask me something. I readily agreed.
The former antagonism had gone from his voice as he began to speak. His words came quietly, curiously, like a child’s.
“Priddy, what can a chap learn to be in college?”
“What do you mean? What does a college fit men for?” I asked.
Martin nodded soberly, his eyes fixed on mine.