“I didn't take his money, but it set me to thinkin'. When old Tommy died, ten years after that, they found he had six wool socks filled with gold an' silver coin under his house, an' nobody ever heerd o' his doin' any charity work. I wish now that I'd 'a' lifted that cash an' 'a' put it whar it would do good. If I had he'd 'a' had a taste o' some 'n' that never glorified his pallet.”
When Abner concluded, Mrs. Bishop went to the fire and pushed the chunks together into a heap in the fireplace. Bishop moved in his chair, but he said nothing.
“I remember heerin' about that, brother Ab,” Mrs. Bishop said, a reminiscent intonation in her voice. “Some folks wondered powerful over it. I don't believe money does a body much good jest to hold an' keep. As the Lord is my judge, I jest wanted that bank deposit fer Alan and Adele. I wanted it, an' I wanted it bad, but I cayn't believe it was a sin.”
Something like a groan escaped Bishop's lips as he lowered the front posts of his chair to the floor.
“What's the use o' talkin' about it?” he said, impatiently. “What's the use o' anything?”
He rose and moved towards the door leading to his room.
“Alfred,” Mrs. Bishop called to him, “are you goin' to bed without holdin' prayer?”
“I'm goin' to omit it to-night,” he said. “I don't feel well, one bit. Besides, I reckon each pusson kin pray in private according to the way they feel.”
Abner stood up, and removing the lamp-chimney he lighted a candle by the flame.
“I tried to put a moral lesson in what I said just now,” he smiled, mechanically, “but I missed fire. Alf's sufferin' is jest unselfishness puore an' undefiled; he wants to set his children up in the world. This green globe is a sight better 'n some folks thinks it is. You kin find a little speck o' goody in mighty nigh ever' chestnut.”