Wesley's grin froze on his features; he returned wearily to his rake.
"Comforting Lesson.
A saint walking among the saved, on Revival Terrace."
But the saint, though tall and bearded, wore a ball dress such as the unchastened belles of society sport upon earth, a profuse skirt, with flashing train; and he was walking quite alone.
"Where are the 'saved'?" said Belle, with ghastly hope.
"They are just around the corner," said I cheerfully; "where that suggestion of clouds is—see!"
"N-no, but I guess they are. Ain't he the lookin'est thing you ever saw?"
"Quite the lookin'est!"
Belle giggled. I bore her out in it sympathetically.
Wesley, who observed how we were at least keeping the crows off of the clams, smiled upon us with feeble indulgence.
But as we read on, Belle did come to a lesson of such useful terror that she decided to take her rake and assist Wesley among the flats.