“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mr. Link, witheringly.
A heated political argument ensued, Mr. Gooch holding out against the Messrs. Link and Sikes, both of whom were what he finally succeeded in characterizing as “black Republicans.” He also charged them with waving the “bloody shirt,” and in return heard his party classified as “out and out copperheads.”
Through it all, the anxious parent of Oliver October sat staring at the bright red isinglass in the stove door, oblivious to the storm of words that raged about him. Mrs. Sage, seated close beside him, finally reached out and took one of his hands in hers and squeezed it sympathetically.
“Don’t you worry,” she said gently.
He looked up, and a slow smile settled upon his homely features.
“You ought to see his feet,” he murmured. “Little bits of things about that long. Cutest feet you ever saw.”
“I’ll bet they are,” said she warmly, and he was happier than he had been in hours.
CHAPTER III
WOMEN IN RED SHAWLS
The Reverend Sage, withdrawing his hallowed cloth from contact with even baser politics, had moved over to one of the windows, and was gazing out between the curtains across the gale-swept porch into the blackness beyond. Through the window-light the fine snow swirled in shadowy clouds, like an ever-moving screen beyond which lay mystery. He shivered a little, poor chap, at the thought of going out again into the bitter, unbelievable night—at the thought of his cold little home at the farther end of the village where the drifts were high and the wind blew fiercely over the treeless, unsheltered tract known as Sharp’s Field. He was thinking, too, of the girl he had brought down with him as a bride in the sunny days of June, when all the land was green and the air was soft and warm and there was the tang of fresh earth and the scent of flowers for grateful nostrils.