“You did pretty well to-day, young man,” he said. “I like doctrinal talks. There's no getting around good, sound doctrine, Hillhouse. We'd have less lawlessness if we could keep our people filled plumb-full of sound doctrine. But you don't look like you've been eating enough, my boy. Come home with me and I'll give you a good dinner. I heard a fat hen squeal early this morning, as my cook, old Aunt Nancy, jerked her head off. It looks a pity to take life on a Sunday, but if that hen had been allowed to live she might have broken a commandment by hunting for worms on this day of rest. So the divine intention may be carried out, after all. Come on with me.” “I can't, Brother Mayhew, not to-day, thank you.” The young man flushed as his glance struggled on to the Porters, who were waiting near the door. “The fact is, I've already accepted an invitation.” “From somebody with a girl in the family, I'll bet,” Mayhew laughed, as he playfully thrust the crooked end of his walking-stick against the preacher's side. “I wish I knew why women are so dead-set on getting a preacher in the family. It may be because they know they will be provided for, after some fashion or other, by the church at large, in case of death or accident.” The preacher laughed as he moved on shaking hands and dispensing cheery words of welcome right and left. Presently the way was clear and he found himself near Cynthia and her mother. “Sorry to keep you standing here,” he said, his color rising higher as he took the hand of the girl and shook it. “Oh, it doesn't matter at all, Brother Hillhouse,” the old woman assured him. “I'll go on an' overtake Mr. Porter; you and Cynthia can stroll home by the shadiest way. You needn't walk fast; you'll get hot if you do. Cynthia, I won't need you before dinner. I've got everything ready, with nothing to do but lay back the cloth and push the plates into their places. I want Brother Hillhouse just to taste that pound-cake you made. I'm a good hand at desserts myself, Brother Hillhouse, but she can beat me any day in the week.” “Oh, I know Miss Cynthia can cook,” said the minister. “At the picnic at Cohutta Springs last week she took the prize on her fried chicken.” “I told you all that mother fried that chicken,” said the girl, indifferently. She had seen Nelson Floyd mounting his fine Kentucky horse among the trees across the street, and had deliberately turned her back towards him. “Well, I believe I _did_ fix the chicken,” Mrs. Porter admitted, “but she made the custards and the cake and icing, besides the poor girl was having a lot of trouble with her dress. She washed and did up that muslin twice--the iron spoiled it the first time. I declare I'd have been out of heart, but she was cheerful all through it. There is Nathan now. He never will go home by himself; he is afraid I'll lag behind and he'll get a late dinner.”