Judith was sitting before the fire on the hearth with a book when Roger stamped up on the piazza. Aunt Affy, mixing bread at the kitchen table, heard the gate swing to, and called to Uncle Cephas that somebody must want shelter for the night to come out in such a storm. Uncle Cephas dropped his newspaper and opened the sitting-room door that led to the piazza.
“Well, the minister, of all things!”
“Sakes alive!” exclaimed Aunt Affy, rubbing the flour off her hands.
Judith sat still by the fire.
“I had to come to see my elder,” explained Roger.
“Oh, church business,” said Aunt Affy enlightened.
“Young folks never mind a storm,” remarked the elder. “Shake off your snow, and come to the fire.”
As Judith arose with her book Roger detained her; “This isn’t a secret session, Judith. You and Aunt Affy must help me decide about Dunellen.”
“Dunellen! Has it come to that?” inquired the elder.
“Dunellen has come to me. The First Church has come to me.”