But it was not the ride that stood uppermost
in her memory as she lay awake far into the night; it was the little
word of endearment uttered in caressing cadence.
"No one ain't ever called me that afore," she murmured wistfully. "I
s'pose ma ain't hed time, and thar was no one else to keer."
Impulsively and tenderly her thin little arm encircled the baby sleeping
beside her.
"Dear!" she whispered in an awed tone. "Dear!"
Iry answered with a sleepy, cooing note.
CHAPTER III
Colette King was not one whom the voice of the people of St. Mark's
would proclaim as the personification of their ideal of a pastor's wife,
yet John Meredith loved her with the love that passeth all
understanding. Perhaps the secret of her charm for him lay in the fact
that she treated him as she did other men--men who did not wear a
surplice. And yet his surplice and all that pertained thereto were
matters of great moment to the rector of St. Mark's. Little traces of
his individuality were evident in the fashioning of this clerical
garment. A pocket for his handkerchief was stitched on the left side.
The flowers, the baptismal font, the altar cloth, and the robes of the
vested choir he insisted should be immaculate in whiteness. White, the
color of the lily, he declared, was the emblem of purity. There were
members of his flock so worldly minded as to whisper insinuatingly that
white was extremely becoming to Colette King. Many washerwomen had
applied for the task of laundering the ecclesiastical linen; many had
been tried and found wanting.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27