Today he was at his best. Few in the congregation suspected it, but if he distributed his glances evenly over the upturned faces, his thoughts were focussed on only one personality—that of modest Cynthia Porter, who, in a becoming gray gown, sat with her mother on the third bench from the front. Mrs. Porter, a woman fifty-five years of age, was very plainly attired in a homespun dress, to which she had added no ornament of any kind. She wore a gingham poke-bonnet, the hood of which hid her face even from the view of the minister. Her husband, old Nathan Porter, sat directly across the aisle from her. He was one of the roughest-looking men in the house. He had come without his coat, and wore no collar or necktie, and for comfort, as the day was warm, he had even thrown off the burden of his suspenders, which lay in careless loops about his hips. He had a broad expanse of baldness, to the edge of which hung a narrow fringe of white hair, a healthful, pink complexion and blue eyes. When the sermon was over and the doxology sung, the preacher stepped down into the congregation to take the numerous hands cordially extended to him. While he was thus engaged old Mayhew came from the amen corner on the right, and nodded and smiled patronizingly. “You did pretty well today, 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 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. Come on with me.” “I can’t, Brother Mayhew; not today, 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 so many women are 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 as he took the girl’s hand.