“I have no call to the ministry,” answered Sidney—employing the slang of the cult glibly to please the woman whom he loved.
“But if you felt you were called you would let nothing stand in your way—would you?”
“No,” said Sidney, glad of an opportunity to say an honest word frankly. “No.”
There was little else said. When they came to the cross-road Mr. Lansing halted and Nathan Peck got out of the waggon to walk down the Brixton road the quarter of a mile to where he lived with his mother.
He stood a lank ungraceful shape in the gloom.
“Here, Nat,” said Temperance, “take my umbrell.”
“Not by a jugful,” he said. “Why, Temp’rins! you’d be soaked clean through.”
“Temperance can come under my umbrella,” said Mabella, divining the pleasure it would give Temperance to yield up hers to Nathan.
“I’ve got my muffler on,” said Nathan stoutly.
“Here!” said Temperance, a trifle imperatively. “Good-night, Nat.”