“Mr. Martin is fair dead beat,” she said without preface. “He’s got a look on his face for sickness. He’d better be took home. Nat, will you fetch round the demicrit?”
Nat departed. Temperance strode over to Sidney.
“If you’d come in out of the rain you wouldn’t get wet,” she said, as if she was speaking to a child; “we’re goin’ home direckly, and there’s no good running after rheumatics; they’ll catch on to you soon enough and stick in your bones worse nor burrs in your hair.”
Sidney moved to the back of the porch and leaned wearily against the church.
“It seems to me he’ll get middlin’ wet driving home anyhow,” said Mr. Lansing.
“Do you think I came to a prayer-meeting for rain without umbrellas?” snorted Temperance. “Them and the waterproofs is under the seats.”
There was silence.
A demonstration of faith so profound was not easily gotten over.
Graceless Lanty sniggered aloud.
The listeners felt themselves scandalized.