“When it was over, the congregation poured out of the church, filled the little yard, and overflowed into the graveyard beyond. No one offered to leave. They stood around in groups—whispering, shaking their heads gravely, pressing their lips in grim lines.
“As soon as the preacher left for his afternoon appointment the storm broke. No one paid any attention to Betty as she stood at the horseblock with me waiting for Father to come round with the surrey. Everybody talked at once.
“‘He doesn’t preach the straight gospel—he tells too many tales.’
“‘He doesn’t visit enough.’
“‘He favors pouring, when we’ve always stood for immersion.’
“These remarks and many others Betty and I heard as we waited there for Father. Betty must have stood it just as long as she possibly could. Then suddenly she jerked away from me and climbed to the horseblock. I can see her now—her red hair flying in the breeze, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed.
“‘My grandfather’s the best man in the world,’ she cried, and stamped her foot angrily. ‘He’s the best man in the world, I tell you. I don’t care what you say, he’s the best man in the world,’ and she crumpled down in a little sobbing heap.
The congregation stood around in groups—whispering and shaking their heads gravely