It was the Friday after one of these appeals that Alex came into the kitchen and said awkwardly,—
"I guess I'll change my clothes, Matildy, and go over t' the church this afternoon and meet the Session."
She felt the burden of years lifted from her shoulders. She said simply,—
"I'm real glad of it, Elick. You'll find two shirts in the middle drawer. I think the under one's the best."
Matilda went back to her work, and thought how the stain would be wiped away. "They'll have to give in that he's a good man now," she said to herself. She fought with the smile that would curve her lips. The minister would announce it on Sabbath. "By letter from sister congregations," and then the names; and then, "On profession of faith, Alexander Randall." She tried to stifle her pride. It must be pride, she said,—it must be something evil that could make her so very, very happy.
III.
It was late when Alex came home, and he did the chores after supper. Mary Frances and Wattie had gone to singing-school and Matilda was alone in the kitchen when her husband came in. He sat down on the doorstep, with his back to her and his head down, and stuck the blade of his jack-knife into the pine step between his feet. There was a long silence, and when he spoke his voice had a husky embarrassment.
"There's something I suppose I'd ought to have talked to you about all this time, Matildy, but somehow I couldn't seem to do it. I had a talk with Mr. Anderson, and he brought it up before the Session, and they didn't seem to think anything more need to be said about it. It's all dead and gone now, and of course you know I've been sorry time and time and again. I don't suppose I ought to say it, but it wasn't altogether my fault. She never did act right, but then, of course"—
"Elick!"
The man heard his name in a quick gasp behind him. He turned and looked up. Matilda was standing over him, with a white, distorted face.