A light of melancholy satisfaction shone from Bolton's deeply shaded eyes. “Well, he ain't one to lose time, not a great deal. I presume he's goin' to work?”
“At once,” said Annie. “He says Mr. Gerrish will be sure to bring his grievance up at the next Society meeting, and we must be ready to meet him, and out-talk him and out-vote him.” She reported these phrases from Putney's lips.
“Well, I guess if it was out-talkin', Mr. Putney wouldn't have much trouble about it. And as far forth as votin' goes, I don't believe but what we can carry the day.”
“We couldn't,” said Mrs. Bolton from the pantry, where she had gone to put the bread away in its stone jar, “if it was left to the church.” She accented the last word with the click of the jar lid, and came out.
“Well, it ain't a church question. It's a Society question.”
Mrs. Bolton replied, on her passage to the dining-room with the plate of sliced bread: “I can't make it seem right to have the minister a Society question. Seems to me that the church members'd ought have the say.”
“Well, you can't make the discipline over to suit everybody,” said Bolton. “I presume it was ordered for a wise purpose.”
“Why, land alive, Oliver Bolton,” his wife shouted back from the remoteness to which his words had followed her, “the statute provisions and rules of the Society wa'n't ordered by Providence.”
“Well, not directly, as you may say,” said Bolton, beginning high, and lowering his voice as she rejoined them, “but I presume the hearts of them that made them was moved.”
Mrs. Bolton could not combat a position of such unimpregnable piety in words, but she permitted herself a contemptuous sniff, and went on getting the things into the dining-room.