She suddenly collapsed in mirth. “’Magine you drivin’ a colt husband, Julie!” she giggled. “Don’t walk so fast, dearie; you put me all out er breath. Well, anyhow, I think widowers are real nice. I ain’t got one thing against ’em. I just believe I’ll make the match between you and Brother Seabrook. You like his looks all right, don’t you?”
Julie had fallen into a frozen silence. But her companion was inexorable.
“Don’t you, dearie? Don’t you like his looks?” she persisted.
“I—I haven’t thought anything about how he looks,” Julie stumbled, unhappily.
“I b’lieve he’d like you, too,” Mrs. Anderson went on. “Big men like him are mighty apt to take to little scary women like you. An’ you’d make him a real good wife, Julie. I will say for you, you’re ’bout the best cook in town. You get that from your mother; she always set the prettiest table—you recollect, Julie?”
Again Julie was silent. The remembrance of her mother informed all her life, but it was not possible for her to speak of it to Mrs. Anderson.
“Well, of course Brother Seabrook would rather have you keepin’ his house an’ raisin’ his children for him than that soured-faced old aunt he’s got now. An’ you wouldn’t give him a speck er trouble; you wouldn’t kick over the traces, would you? ’Magine you kickin’ over anything, Julie!” Again Mrs. Anderson was convulsed with mirth, but this time she was interrupted. “Oh, mercy! Them old teeth!” she cried, clapping her hand to her mouth. “My! But they certainly did take a spiteful nip at my tongue that time. Yes, sir,” she continued, “I’m certainly goin’ to make that match if I live. I’ll commence right this evenin’ by bringin’ you to his notice. I’ll tip him off to call on you to pray.”
“Oh, no!” Julie burst out. “Oh, please, Mrs. Anderson—please don’t do anything like that! You know I never do lead in prayer. I can’t do it. I never could. Brother Mead knew I couldn’t—and old Brother Johnston, too—mother told them privately, and they never called on me. I’ll do anything to help the church—anything I can. But I can’t lead in prayer, Mrs. Anderson; you know I can’t! I never could.”
“Well, now, it’s time you learned. You been a member in the Methodist church too long not to be able to pray, Julie. Why, what’ll folks think if it gets about you can’t pray? Why, prayer’s just the very foundation of the church. What’s the matter?”
Julie had stopped. “I’m not going to prayer-meeting this evening,” she faltered. “I’ve got to go back. I—I don’t feel so very well.”