“It looks quite nat'ral,” said Deacon Fairchild, “ter see Joan Salisbury attendin' the ministration of the Word agin. And I ain't sorry she didn't bring that second husband of hers with her. It kinder looks like old times--afore Edward Blandford was gathered to the Lord.” “That's so,” replied his auditor meekly, “and they do say ez ha'ow Demorest got more powerful worldly and unregenerate in that heathen country, and that Joan ez a professin' Christian had to leave him. I've heerd tell thet he'd got mixed up, out thar, with some half-breed outlaw, of the name o' Johnson, ez hez a purty, high-flyin' Mexican wife. It was fort'nit for Joan that she found a friend in grace in Brother Corwin to look arter her share in the property and bring her back tu hum.” “She's lookin' peart,” said Sister Bradley, “though to my mind that bonnet savors still o' heathen vanities.” “Et's the new idees--crept in with that organ,” groaned Deacon Fairchild; “but--sho--thar she comes.” She shone for an instant--a charming vision--out of the shadow of the choir stairs, and then glided primly into the street. The old sexton, still in waiting with his hand on the half-closed door, paused and looked after her with a troubled brow. A singular and utterly incomprehensible recollection and resemblance had just crossed his mind. End of Project Gutenberg's The Argonauts of North Liberty, by Bret Harte