“There,” she went on with a dry laugh, “just hear that low voice: it’s just the voice for a parson!” Then she posed before me in dreadful mimicry, with her finger tips touching in front of her and an affected, upward cast in her eyes, while she cried, ingratiatingly:
“‘Be good, be very, very good, my dears! Do right like me and get to heaven!’” and then releasing herself from this display she suddenly roared, “You old hypocrite, you! The idea, you a parson!”
“God knows,” muttered uncle, “it is to be wondered how a lad brought up with us could ever turn his eyes in that direction!”
At that my Aunt Millie cast on her husband a frown and said, snappishly:
“Aye, you old sinner. Your conscience is working now. No wonder you talk like that!”
During the dinner, while my aunt was in the pantry, uncle bent towards me and whispered:
“Come out with me after dinner, Al. We’ll talk there!”
At half-past twelve we left the house together and sat down on some logs on an empty lot near the mill where uncle said, after I had recounted to him my two years’ experiences:
“But what can you do now? It seems that you have cut yourself off from everything by leaving that school. You have nothing to go to now!”
“Oh,” I replied, “there are scores of places that I might go to in the East here, if I only knew where to look. Rather than be idle, I might go to the local high school and work during the spare time for my board and clothes. Then there are free academies and preparatory schools where I might get a chance. I will begin to look around. Mr. Woodward, the minister, might know of some things. I mean to see him this afternoon. I shall try to keep on with my studies somehow.”