"You have your friends," he said coldly, "those for whom you left us."
"Not so," she replied. "I have those in this house; but in the church I had only him out there. My church, here, at least, does not receive converts as yours does. I suppose it must be because they know that we are only coming home to our own Father's house, and they think it would be presumptuous in them to come to meet us, as if we needed to be welcomed."
"What! was no courtesy, no kindness shown you?" he asked incredulously.
"Scarcely a decent civility," she replied. "But no matter about that. Only, I want you to remember it, and to send my old friends back to me. If they will not come, then their talk of religious freedom is hardly sincere; and if you do not tell them, then I shall think you unchristian. Indeed, doctor, when you have passed me ill the street, without any notice, I haven't thought that you were very good just then."
The doctor looked at her keenly. "I will be friends with you on one condition," he said.
"And that?"
"Let Mr. Southard alone!" he said with emphasis.
Before she could utter a protestation, he had left the room.
The day crept past, and the night, and another day; and then there was nothing for them to do but take up their life, and try to make the best of it.