“They're good people,” said the old woman, “and the world 'd be a heap better off if there was more like 'em.”
Her son came in and laid a soft shawl over her shoulders before he shook hands with the visitors. “I am glad you found your way here,” he said to them.
Christine, who had been bending forward over her fan, now lifted herself up with a sigh and leaned back in her chair.
“I'm sorry my father isn't here,” said the young man to Mrs. March. “He's never met you yet?”
“No; and I should like to see him. We hear a great deal about your father, you know, from Mr. Fulkerson.”
“Oh, I hope you don't believe everything Mr. Fulkerson says about people,” Mela cried. “He's the greatest person for carrying on when he gets going I ever saw. It makes Christine just as mad when him and mother gets to talking about religion; she says she knows he don't care anything more about it than the man in the moon. I reckon he don't try it on much with father.”
“Your fawther ain't ever been a perfessor,” her mother interposed; “but he's always been a good church-goin' man.”
“Not since we come to New York,” retorted the girl.
“He's been all broke up since he come to New York,” said the old woman, with an aggrieved look.
Mrs. Mandel attempted a diversion. “Have you heard any of our great New York preachers yet, Mrs. March?”