"'Twont hurt you to rest a minute—and 'twont hurt me," said he. "Why I haint seen you since——How long do you s'pose folks can live and not see moonshine? Now you pull off your bonnet, and I'll tell Mrs. Hummins to give us something good for tea."
"What would mother do for hers, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith resisting this invitation.
"Well you can sit down anyhow, and read to me," said Mr. Simlins, who had already taken a seat himself in preparation for it. "People can't get along without light from one phenomenon or the other, you know, Faith."
She took off her bonnet, and brought the Bible. "What do you want, Mr.
Simlins?" her sweet voice said meaningly.
"Fact is," said the farmer rather sorrowfully, "I s'pose I want about everything! I don't feel to know much more'n a baby—and there aint more'n three grains of corn to the bushel in our minister's preachin'. I go to meetin' and come home with my head a little more like a bell than 'twas; for there's nothing more in it but a ringin' of the words I've heerd. Do you mind, Faith, when somebody—I don't know whether you or I like him best—wanted me to try a new kind of farming?—you mind it? I guess you do. It never went out o' my head again, till I set out to try;—and now I find I don't know nothin' at all how to work it!"
"What is the trouble, dear Mr. Simlins?" said Faith looking up.
The farmer hesitated, then said low and huskily, "I don't know what to do about joinin' the church."
"The Bible says, 'If a man love God, the same is known of him,'"—Faith answered softly.
"Well, but can't it be known of him without that? Fact is, Faith, I'm afeard!"—and a rough hand was drawn across the farmer's eyes—"I'm afeard, if I do, I'll do something I hadn't ought to do, and so only just dishonour the profession—and I'd better not have anything to do with it!"
Faith turned back the leaves of the Bible.