of light from some library or sitting-room window, accompanied
by the tones of a piano or guitar,--or sound of laughing voices. And the
house of God stood silent, dark and cold, with the figure of the Christ
upon the window and the spire, like a giant hand, pointing upward.
CHAPTER III
"I declare to goodness, if that ain't the third tramp I've chased away
from this house to-day! I'll have father get a dog if this keeps up. They
do pester a body pretty nigh to death." Mrs. Wilson slammed the
kitchen door and returned to her dish-washing. "The ide' of givin' good
victuals to them that's able to work--not much I won't--Let 'em do like I
do." And the good lady plied her dish-cloth with such energy that her
daughter hastily removed the clean plates and saucers from the table to
avoid the necessity of drying them again.
"But this man wanted work, didn't he mother?" asked Clara, "And I
heard you tell father at dinner that you wanted someone to fix the
cowshed and clean up the back yard."
"There you go again," angrily snapped the older woman, resting her
wet hands upon her hips and pausing in her labor, the better to
emphasize her words; "Allus a criticisin' and a findin' fault--Since you
took up with that plagy church there aint been nothin' right."
"Forgive me mother, I didn't think," said the daughter, looking into the
wrathful black eyes of her parent.
"Didn't think," whined the woman, "You never think of nothin' but your
blamed Young Folks' Society or Sunday School. Your mother an' father
and home aint good enough fer your saintship now-a-days. I wish to
goodness you'd never heard tell of that preacher; the whole set's a batch
of stingy hypocrites." She turned to her dish-washing again with a
splash. "An' there's George Udell, he aint going to keep hanging around
forever, I can tell you; there's too many that'ud jump at his offer, fer
him to allus be a dancin' after you; an' when you git through with your
foolishness, you'll find him married and settled down with some other
girl, an' what me and your father'll do when we git too old to work, the
Lord only knows. If you had half sense you'd take him too quick."
Clara made no reply, but finishing her work in silence, hung up her
apron and left the kitchen.
Later, when Mrs. Wilson went into the pleasant little sitting-room,
where the flowers in the window would bloom, and the pet canary
would sing in spite of the habitual crossness of the mistress of the
house, she found her daughter attired for the street.
"Where are you going now?" she asked; "Some more foolishness, I'll be
bound; you just take them things off and stay to home; this here
weather aint fit fer you to be trapsin round in. You'll catch your death
of cold; then I'll have to take care of you. I do believe, Clara Wilson,
you are the most ungratefulest girl I ever see."
"But mother, I just must go to the printing office this afternoon. Our
society meets to-morrow night and I must look after the printing of the
constitution and by-laws."
"What office you goin' to?" asked the mother sharply.
"Why, George's, of course," said Clara; "You know I wouldn't go
anywhere else."
"Oh well, get along then; I guess the weather won't hurt you; its clearin'
off a little anyway. I'll fix up a bit and you can bring George home to
supper." And the old lady grew quite cheerful as she watched the sturdy
figure of her daughter making her way down the board walk and
through the front gate.
George Udell was a thriving job printer in Boyd City, and stood high in
favor of the public generally, and of the Wilson family in particular, as
might be gathered from the conversation of Clara's mother. "I tell you,"
she said, in her high-pitched tones, "George Udell is good enough fer
any gal. He don't put on as much style as some, an' aint much of a
church man; but when it comes to makin' money he's all there, an' that's
the main thing now-a-days."
As for Clara, she was not insensible to the good points in Mr. Udell's
character, of which money-making was by no means the most
important, for she had known him ever since the time, when as a long,
lank, awkward boy, he had brought her picture cards and bits of
bright-colored printing. She was a wee bit of a girl then, but somehow,
her heart told her that her friend was more honest than most boys, and,
as she grew older, in spite of her religious convictions, she had never
been forced to change her mind.
But
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