“Yuh, but they don’t appreciate it—not even when I said about how this old fellow was a sure-enough hero. We got to get on to some burg where I’ll have a chance.”
“Don’t you think God’s in Banjo Crossing as much as in a city?”
“Oh, now, Cleo, don’t go and get religious on me! You simply can’t understand how it takes it out of a fellow to do a funeral right and send ’em all home solaced. You may find God here, but you don’t find the salaries!”
He was not angry with Cleo now, nor bullying. In these two months he had become indifferent to her; indifferent enough to stop hating her and to admire her conduct of the Sunday School, her tactful handling of the good sisters of the church when they came snooping to the parsonage.
“I think I’ll take a little walk,” he muttered when they reached home.
He came to the Widow Clark’s house, where he had lived as bachelor.
Jane was out in the yard, the March breeze molding her skirt about her; rosy face darker and eyes more soft as she saw the pastor hailing her, magnificently raising his hat.
She fluttered toward him.
“You folks ever miss me? Guess you’re glad to get rid of the poor old preacher that was always cluttering up the house!”
“We miss you awfully!”