The Web of Time

by Robert E. Knowles

A FLOW OF SOUL

Good Dr. Fletcher always said a little longer grace than usual when he dined at Mr. Craig's. Whether this was due to the length of the ensuing meal, or to the long intervals that separated these great occasions, or to the wealth that provided them, or to the special heart-needs of the wealthy, it were difficult to say. But one thing is beyond all doubt, and that is that the good minister of the Glenallen Presbyterian Church would no more have thought of using an old grace at Mrs. Craig's table than she herself would have dreamed of serving the same kind of soup, or repeating a dessert whose predecessor was within the call of memory.

On this particular evening Dr. Fletcher's invocation had been particularly long, due perhaps to the aroma, more than usually significant, that had escaped the kitchen to assure the sanguine guests; and a sort of muffled amen broke from their waiting lips, soon to confirm the word by all sincerity of action. This amen was doubtless due in part to gratitude for what had ended, as well as to anticipation of what was about to be begun. Cecil Craig, seated beside his mother, took no part in the terminal devotion; long before the time to utter it, his open eyes were turned towards the door through which the servants were to enter, and from which, so far as he could reckon, all blessings flow.

Soup came first, and young Craig dauntlessly led on in the attack. His mother tried eagerly to call to his attention, and to his alone, that he had seized the spoon meant for his dessert; but Cecil was already in full cry, the mistaken weapon plying like a paddle-wheel between his plate and his mouth—and no signal of distress could reach him. The most unfortunate feature of it all, however, was the speedy plight of one or two timorous guests, who, waiting for the lead of any members of the family, had followed Cecil's; and, suddenly detecting whither he had led them, were soon floundering sadly in such a slough of despond as they scarce escaped from during the entire meal.

Mr. and Mrs. Borland were there, one on either side of Dr. Fletcher; and the light of temporary peace was upon Mrs. Borland's brow—for the Craigs' home was nearer to a mansion than any other in Glenallen. A slight shade of impatience flitted across her face as she glanced athwart Dr. Fletcher's portly form, surveying her husband's bosom swathed in snowy white, his napkin securely tucked beneath his chin. But David was all unconscious, the region beneath the napkin being exceeding comfortable; for the soup was good, and her spouse bade fair to give Cecil a stern chase for the honours of the finish.

Soup is a mighty lubricant of the inward parts; wherefore there broke out, when the first course was run, a very freshet of conversation; and the most conspicuous figure in the flow was that of Mr. Craig. He had the advantage, of course, of an erect position, for he had risen to inaugurate his attack upon the helpless fowl before him; an entrance once effected, he would resume his seat.

"It beats me," he was saying, glancing towards Dr. Fletcher as he spoke, "it beats me how any man can go and see sick folks every day—I'd sooner do hard labour. Don't you get awful tired of it, Doctor?"

The minister's gentle face flushed a little—the same face at sight of which the sad and the weary were wont to take new hope. "I don't think you understand it, Mr. Craig," he answered quietly; "any one who regards it as you do could never see the beauty of it—it all depends on what you take with you."

"Good heavens, do you have to take things with you?" cried the astonished host. "Matters are come to a pretty pass when they expect a poor preacher to be giving—as well as praying," he affirmed, affirmed, savagely at the victim on the platter.

David Borland was listening intently, nabbing dexterously the while at a tray of salted almonds that lay a good arm's length away from him. "The minister's quite right," he now broke in; "you don't understand, Mr. Craig—Dr. Fletcher don't mean that he takes coal an' tea, when he visits poor folks. But what he says is dead true just the same—any one can carry a bag of turnips, or such like, to any one that's willin' to take 'em. But a minister's got to give somethin' far more than that; even on Sundays—at least that's my idea of it—even on Sundays, what a preacher gives is far more important than what he says."