"I do not wonder," said Ann, "that they will not attend the chapel."
"If," said Penhallow, "you were to swap pulpits, Mark, it would draw. There are many ways—oh, I am quite in earnest, Ann. Don't put on one of your excommunicating looks. I remember once in Idaho at dusk, I had two guides. They were positive, each of them, that certain trails would lead to the top. I tossed up which to go with. It was pretty serious—Indians and so on—I'll tell you about it some time, rector. Well, we met at dawn on the summit. How about the moral, Ann?"
Ann Penhallow laughed. In politics, morals and religion, she held unchanging sentiments. "My dear James, people who make fables supply the morals. I decline."
"Very good, but you see mine."
"I never see what I do not want to see," which was pretty close to the truth.
"The fact is," said Rivers, "I have preaccepted the Squire's hint. Grace is sick again. I tell him it is that last immersion business. I have promised to preach for him next Sunday, as your young curate at the mills wants to air his eloquence here."
"Not really!" said Mrs. Ann, "at his chapel?"
"Yes, and I mean to use a part of our service."
"If the Bishop knew it."
"If! he would possibly forbid it, or be glad I did it."