He had been "going with" Marg'et Ann more than a year, and there was generally supposed to be an understanding between them.
She turned when he came up, and put out her hand without embarrassment, but she blushed as pink as the crab-apple bloom in his grasp.
They talked a little of commonplace things, and Marg'et Ann looked down and swallowed once or twice before she said gravely,—
"I hoped you'd come forward this sacrament, Lloyd."
The young man's brow clouded.
"I've told you I can't join the church without telling a lie, Marg'et Ann. You wouldn't want me to tell a lie," he said, flushing hotly.
She shook her head, looking down, and twisting her handkerchief into a ball in her hands.
"I know you have doubts about some things; but I thought they might be removed by prayer. Have you prayed earnestly to have them removed?" She looked up at him anxiously.
"I've asked to be made to see things right," he replied, choking a little over this unveiling of his holy of holies; "but I don't seem to be able to see some things as you do."
She pondered an instant, looking absently at the headstone of "Hephzibah," who was the later of Robert McCoy's two beloved wives, then she said, with an effort, for these staid descendants of Scottish ancestry were not given to glib talking of sacred things: