The minister laughed.
“I have heard a score of such stories to-day,” he said; “there seem to be enough of them; but I can't find anything adapted to a sermon, and yet they seem to expect a detailed biography.”
“Ah, that's just the trouble,” said the Doctor. “But let us go into the house; my wife remembers everything that ever happens, and she can post you up on Uncle Capen, if anybody can.”
So they crossed the door-yard into the house.
Mrs. Hunter was sewing; a neighbor, come to tea, was crocheting wristers for her grandson.
They were both talking at once as the Doctor opened the sitting-room door.
“Since neither of you appears to be listening,” he said, as they started up, “I shall not apologize for interrupting. Mr. Holt is collecting facts about Uncle Capen for his funeral sermon, and I thought that my good wife could help him out, if anybody could. So I will leave him.”
And the Doctor, nodding, went into the hall for his coat and driving-gloves, and, going out, disappeared about the corner of the house.
“You will really oblige me very much, Mrs. Hunter,” said the minister, “—or Mrs. French,—if you can give me any particulars about old Mr. Capen's life. His family seem to be rather sensitive, and they depend on a long, old-fashioned funeral sermon; and here I am utterly bare of facts.”
“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Hunter; “of course, now—”