Under the Country Sky | Page 4

the question. "No, a hateful, envious, black-browed time, disguised as much as might be under a frivolous manner. The girls were lovely--and I was a perfect fiend!"
Mr. Warne did not seem in the least disconcerted by this startling statement. "The sounds I heard did not strike me as indicating the presence of any fiend," he suggested.
"Probably not. I managed to avoid giving in to the temptation to snatch Phyl's sumptuous chinchilla coat, Madge's perfectly adorable hat, Theo's bronze shoes, Dot's embroidered silk handbag, and Bess's hand-wrought collar and cuffs."
"It was a matter of clothes, then? How much heart-burning men escape!" mused Mr. Warne. "Now, I can never recall hearing any man, young or old, express a longing to denude other men of their apparel."
Georgiana shot him a look. "No, men merely envy other men their acres, their horses, their motors--and their books. Own up, now, Father Davy, have you never coveted any man's library?"
The blue-gray eyes sent her back a humorous glance. "Now you have me," he owned. "But tell me, daughter--it was not only their clothes which stirred the fiend within you? Confess!"
She looked round at him. "I don't need to," she said. "You know the whole of it--what I want for you and me--what they have--life! And lots of it. You need it just as badly as I do--you, a suffering saint at fifty-five when other men are playing golf! And I--simply bursting with longing to take you and go somewhere--anywhere with you--and see things--and do things--and live things! And we as poor as poverty, after all you've done for the Lord. Oh, I----"
She brought her strong young fist down on the nearly threadbare rug with a thump that reddened the fine flesh, and thumped again and yet again, while her father lay and silently watched her, with a look in his eyes less of pain than of utter comprehension. He said not a word, while she bit her lip and stared again into the fire, clenching the fist that had spoken for her bitterly aching heart. After a time the tense fingers relaxed, and she held up the hand and looked at it.
"I'm a brute!" she said presently. "An abominable little brute. How do you stand me? How do you endure me, Father Davy! I just bind the load on your poor back and pull the knots tight, every time I let myself break out like this. If you were any minister-father but yourself, you'd either preach or pray at me. How can you keep from it?"
He smiled. "I never liked to be preached or prayed at myself, dear," he said. "I have not forgotten. And the Lord Himself doesn't expect a young caged lioness to act like a caged canary. He doesn't want it to. And some day--He will let it out of the cage!"
She shook her head, and got up. She kissed the gray curls and patted the thin cheek, said cheerfully: "I'm going to get your supper now," and went away out of the room.
In the square old kitchen she flung open an outer door and stood staring up at the starry winter sky.
"Oh, if anything, anything, anything would happen!" she breathed, stretching out both arms toward the snowy shrubbery-broken expanse behind the house which in summer was her garden. "If something would just keep this evening from being like all the other evenings! I can't sit and read aloud--to-night. I can't--I can't! And the only interesting thing on earth that can happen is that Jimps Stuart may come over--and he probably won't, because he was over last evening and the evening before that, and he knows he can't be allowed to come all the time. He----"
It was at this point that the old brass knocker on the front door sounded--and something happened.
CHAPTER II
SOMETHING REALLY HAPPENS
It might have been any of the village people, as Georgiana expected it would be when she closed the kitchen door with a bang and went reluctantly to answer the knock. Since it was almost suppertime it was probably Mrs. Shear, who seldom made a call at any other hour, knowing she would as surely be asked to stay as it was sure that David Warne's heart would respond to the wanness and unhappiness always written on Mrs. Shear's homely middle-aged face. As she went to the door, Georgiana felt an intensely wicked desire to hit Mrs. Shear a blow with her own capable fist, which should send her backward into the snow. Georgiana did not believe that the lady was as unhappy as she looked. It seemed to be a day for expression by the use of fists!
But when the door was opened and the light from the bracket lamp in the manse hall shone out on the figure standing upon the porch, all desire to hit anything