They smoked and talked politics, and the village and their work, until at last, after one of the pipe-filling pauses, Grace said, "I ought not to have taken that cider, but it singularly refreshed me. You did not partake."
"No, it disagrees with me."
"I feel it, Brother Rivers. I feel it slightly, and—I—a man who preaches temperance, total abstinence—"
"My dear Grace, that is not temperance. There may be intemperance in the way a man puts his opinions before others—a man may hurt his own cause—"
Grace returned quickly, "You were in our church Wednesday night—I saw you. You think I was intemperate?"
"Frankly, yes. You were abusive. You are too well self-governed to understand the working-man's temptations. You preached from the heart as you felt, without the charity of the head."
"Perhaps—perhaps," he returned humbly; and then with a quite gentle retort, "Don't you sometimes preach too much from the head, Brother Rivers?"
"Yes, that may be the case. I am conscious sometimes that I lack your power of direct appeal—your personal application of the truth. I ought to preach the first half of the sermon—the appeal to the reason, the head part—and ask you to conclude with the heart share—the personal application of my cold logic."
"Let us try it," said Grace rising and much amused; "cold, Rivers! your cold logic! There is nothing cold in all your nature. Let us go home; we have had a good talk."
As they walked down the avenue Grace said, "What are you doing about
Lamb? Is it really wise to talk to him?"