“That’s good, pious doctrine, Hulda, but I’m kinder unsteady on religious pints, and I think the Lord does the handsome thing, when he gives us this world, with all its fruits and products, and store of materials to work and weave, and brains to think, and arms to work; and we serve him best when we take all this, on trust, and turn it over, and work it up, and do the very best we can, givin’ him the glory. That’s my religion, Hulda, and I mean to live by it. And if I can do that, I ain’t afraid it won’t carry me over the river. I ain’t agoin’ to trouble him to set me goin’, but jest look ’round, find suthin’ to do, and then pitch in with a will.”
Hulda groaned in spirit, but kept her lips fast closed. This was not exactly what Parson Arnold preached, and the self-reliant religion of Mark Small, had a shade of blasphemy to her orthodox ears.
“Hulda, I wouldn’t sit here any longer if I were you. It’s getting dark and cold. I’ll walk down the road with you. It’s good of you to come, and I think I feel better for getting to be good friends with you again. I thought the old feelin’ had died out, but it hain’t, and if ever I get on my feet agen,—”
“Is that you, Mark Small?”
A burly form came between them and the light. Hulda recognized it, and sprang to her feet. Captain Thompson, the last man she expected to meet stood before them. She darted back of Mark Small, out of the light. The captain took no notice of her, supposing her one of the employees of the mill.
“Yes, Captain, here I am, watching the remains. The old mill’s done for—and so am I.”
The captain came forward with outstretched hands.
“Mark, I am sorry for you. If it had been one of my ships, I couldn’t have felt worse. I’ve been out of town all day. Just heard of it. Swept clean away, hey?”
“Yes, Captain, all gone. Some of the machinery might be saved, but it can do no good. What’s the use of a horse, if you can’t get a stable for him?”