He looked self-conscious and mumbled, earnestly, “Well, I try not to be.”
“But I am going to make you go to church. You’ll be a socialist or something like that if you get to be too much of a poet and don’t—”
“Miss Nelly, please may I go to church with you?”
“Why—”
“Next Sunday?”
“Why, yes, I should be pleased. Are you a Presbyterian, though?”
“Why—uh—I guess I’m kind of a Congregationalist; but still, they’re all so much alike.”
“Yes, they really are. And besides, what does it matter if we all believe the same and try to do right; and sometimes that’s hard, when you’re poor, and it seems like—like—”
“Seems like what?” Mr. Wrenn insisted.
“Oh—nothing…. My, you’ll have to get up awful early Sunday morning if you’d like to go with me. My church starts at ten-thirty.”