Amid the brief babel of condemnation which had preceded the general departure, the voice of Temperance was the only one raised to stem the flood of popular indignation.
“Perhaps ’twas laid onto him to speak so,” said Temperance. “I have heard tell of these things.”
“Well,” said Mr. Simpson indignantly, “them things is more enjoyable by hearsay. ’Twas disgraceful! that’s what it was——” and then he made off, but Temperance, staunch old Temperance, stood her ground, and spoke to Vashti and Sidney as they emerged. But Sidney was wearied out and bewildered by the sudden defection of his people, and so had little to say, and when they reached the little gate the two couples separated and took different roads; the windows and doors were closed in all the houses which Vashti and Sidney passed as they went to the parsonage. Vashti realized that never had she been so identified with her husband as she was that day by the eyes which peeped out of the re-opened doors behind them.
Dole had withdrawn itself from its preacher. It had been hard to win out, but it retired to its shell with a promptitude which suggested that it had never been quite comfortable out of it.
“I can’t understand it,” said Sidney. “It seems extraordinary. I did not preach too long, did I?”
“No, indeed,” said Vashti; “you spoke splendidly.”
His face glowed like that of a child which has been praised; he passed his hand vaguely across his brow.
“I am so glad you are pleased,” he said. “It was your sermon, you know. It seemed to me I was saying just what you would wish.”
“Yes, of course you did,” said Vashti as they entered the parsonage gate, then, hesitatingly, she said: