Were I writing
fiction I should hesitate to set down such idiotic folly, expecting you
to call it unnatural or absurdly overdrawn; but I do solemnly declare to
you that this is fact. Account for the folly of their behavior as best
you can.
Well, Sallie and her father are left behind. But, mind you, they are not
among the doubtful ones. They both as much expect to serve at court as
they expect to live through all eternity. But while they wait they are
busy. They have moved from the alley; the surroundings were not such as
they liked. Did you notice that bit of a house landing modestly back
from the road, at the further corner of those ample grounds that
surround the South End Church? It is the sexton's house, and that
church, and those Sunday-school rooms, and those grounds, and everything
pertaining to them, are under his care. The father is the sexton, it is
true, and attends the furnace and rings the bell; but it is Sallie's
care that keeps seat and desk and window so beautifully free from dust
or stain. Oh, they live busy lives, and happy ones. Sallie trusted not
in vain in her father's promise that night, when he put his weak will
into the pledge; but you are to understand that it was but a few days
thereafter when he planted his weak and wavering feet on the Rock of
Ages.
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