Upon this Dorothy plucked at his coat-skirt, and, much embarrassed, he fell back, saying, “That’s as friends please.”
Then Joe came from the cow-shed and went in past his wife. As he went by, he nodded cheerfully to Dorothy and to the preacher. “’Most ready; won’t be long.”
Mrs. Colkett stood looking across the clearing. The preacher, uneasily moving to and fro, at last approached her again. “My sister,” he said, “the hand of the Lord has been heavy on this household of his people.” From her great height Susan Colkett cast her eyes down on the wan little person below her. “It is fit,” he went on, “that while—”
“Look here,” said Susan; “you’ve come to bury that child, and that’s all you’re here for. Just set down and wait”; and so saying, she brought out two crippled chairs.
Dorothy said, “No, I will stand.”
The preacher sat down without a word, and found occupation in keeping his place, as the chair-legs bored unequally into the soft soil. At last, greatly troubled, he looked toward Dorothy for consolation, and, receiving none, at last fell on his knees in deep despair. “Oh, Lord!” he cried, “move the heart of this woman that she may receive the message of thy grace!” and on this Dory too knelt in the sunshine, while Susan turned and went into the house.
Then there arose within the rude noise of loud hammering, and, utterly confused, the unhappy preacher looked up, and saw that he was alone with Dorothy.
“What manner of people are these?” he said, as they both arose. “I must speak to her,” and he moved toward the door.
“I wouldn’t,” said Dorothy, touching his coat. “Not now. Another time.”
He said no more, and the pair stayed without, waiting with no further words, while the hammering went on. At last it ceased. Joe came out, wringing a finger. “I kind of mashed it,” he said, in an explanatory voice. “Susie’s ready.” He went back, and soon came out again with the white box held in front of him on his two outstretched arms.