"Look in the end of the seventh chapter of Matthew."
"Well," said Mrs. Barclay, when the door was closed, "what do you think of our progress?"
"Progress?" repeated Philip vacantly. "I beg your pardon!"—
"In music, man!" said Mrs. Barclay, laughing.
"O!—Admirable. Have you a Bible here?"
"A Bible?" Mrs. Barclay echoed. "Yes—there is a Bible in every room, I believe. Yonder, on that table. Why? what do you want of one now?"
"I have had a sermon preached to me, and I want to find the text."
Mrs. Barclay asked no further, but she watched him, as with the book in his hand he sat down before the fire and studied the open page. Studied with grave thoughtfulness, drawing his brows a little, and pondering with eyes fixed on the words for some length of time. Then he bade her good-night with a smile, and went away.
He went away in good earnest next day; but as a subject of conversation in the village his visit lasted a good while. That same evening Mrs. Marx came to make a call, just before supper.
"How much pork are you goin' to want this year, mother?" she began, with the business of one who had been stirring her energies with a walk in a cool wind.