Next morning the children were very glad to go home, and Mary, though she would hardly have said so to any one, could not help thinking she should never like Siller Noonin quite so well after this as she had done before.
They were climbing the fence to run across the fields, when some one said,—
"Patience Lyman!"
It was Deacon Turner, the tithing-man; but his voice was very mild this morning, and he did not look like the same man Patty had seen at prayer meeting. His face was almost smiling, and he had a double red rose in his hand.
"Good morning, little ladies," said he, giving the rose to Patty, who blushed as red as the rose herself, and hung her head in bashful shame.
"Thank you, sir," she stammered.
"I can't bring myself to believe you meant to disturb the meetin' last night," said the deacon, taking her unwilling little hand.
"No, O, no!" replied Patty, with dripping eyes.
"It was in the school-'us, but then the school-'us is just as sacred as the meetin'-'us, when it's used for religious purposes. I'm afeared, Patience, you forgot you went there to hold communion 'long of His saints. I'm afeared your mind warn't in a fit state to receive much benefit from the occasion."
Patty felt extremely uncomfortable. Good Deacon Turner seldom took the least notice of children—having none of his own, and no nieces or nephews;—and when he did try to talk to little folks, he always made a sad piece of work of it. He did not know how to put himself in sympathy with them, and could not remember how he used to feel when he was young.