Now Mr. Butler was the new minister; and Louise, who had heard his name mentioned, was interested in the answer. Farmer Morgan laid down his newspaper, crossed one leg over the other, tilted his chair back a trifle, and was ready to talk.
"Acquainted with him? No, I can't say that I am; he knows my name, and I know his; and he says, 'How do you do?' to me when he meets me on the street, if he isn't in too brown a study to notice me at all. I reckon that as about as near as I shall get to an acquaintance. I ain't used to any great attention from ministers, you know."
"I thought possibly he had called during my absence."
"No, he hasn't. When it comes to making a friendly call, we live a good way out, and the road is bad, and the weather is bad, and it is tremendously inconvenient."
"We always live a good way out of town, except when there is to be a fair or festival, or doings of some kind, when they want cream, and butter, and eggs, and chickens; then we are as handy to get at as anybody in the congregation." This from his mother.
Lewis could not avoid a slight laugh; the social qualities of the little church in the village, or at least its degree of social intercourse with its country neighbours, was so clearly stated by that last sentence.
"Oh, well," he said, "it is a good way out for those who have no horses to depend on, and many of the church people are in that condition. As for Mr. Butler, he has been here but a short time; of course he hasn't gotten around the parish yet."
"No," said his father significantly. "It takes a dreadful long time to get around a small field, especially when there's no special motive for going. But we don't care; a body would think, to hear us talk, that we were dreadful anxious for a call. I don't know what he would call for; 'pears to me it would be a waste of time."
"You like his preaching, don't you, father?"
The farmer tore little strips from the edge of his paper, and rolled them thoughtfully between his thumb and finger for a little before he answered.