I was trying to see which end to take hold of.
“Well-a,” I says, “into which church?”
The minister’s wife stared at me.
“Why, ours!” says she.
“Why into ours?” I ask’ her, thoughtful.
“My goodness,” says she, “what do you s’pose we’re in our church for, anyway?”
“I’m sure,” says I, “I don’t know. I often wonder. I’m in our particular one because my father was janitor of it when I was a little girl. Why are you in it?”
She looked at me perfectly withering.
“I,” she says cold, “was brought up in it. There was never any question what one I should be in.”
“Exactly,” says I, nodding. “And your husband—why is he in our special church?”