Years
ago, when a boy, he had attended preaching in Silas Van de Lear's little
chapel, and it touched him deeply that the nestor of the suburb was
about to die; the last of the staunch old pastors of the kirk who had
never been silent when liberty was in peril. The times were not the
same, and the old man was too brave and simple for the latter half of
his century. As Duff Salter thought of many memories associated with the
Rev. Silas Van de Lear's residence in Kensington, he heard his own name
mentioned. It was a lady's voice; nothing but acute sensibility could
have made it so plain to a deaf man:
"Husband," said the lady with the slumberous eyelids, "go out with the
pitcher and get us half a gallon of ale. Cal and Mr. Salter and myself
are thirsty."
"I have been for the doctor, Lottie; let Cal go."
"Cal?" exclaimed the lady, very quietly raising her lashes. "It would
not do for him to go for _ale_! He is to be the junior pastor, my dear,
as soon as papa is buried, over the Van de Lear church."
"All right," said the tired husband, "I'll go. We must all back up Cal."
As soon as the door closed upon Mr. Knox Van de Lear, a kiss resounded
through the little house, and a woman's voice followed it, saying:
"Imprudent!"
"Oh, bah!" spoke Calvin Van de Lear.
Pages:
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241