"We can't go--the babies would never in the world--" Nell was beginning

to exclaim.

"Drat 'em!" exclaimed Billy, looking down aggrievedly at the small crew

of marplots. "A pair of perfectly good chaperons are hard to get, and to

think of that bunch of little miseries getting in the way of a good old

fox--"

"They'll all go to sleep during the services and I'll keep them on my

bed in the parsonage until the fun is over, and agree to deliver them on

claim," Mr. Goodloe interrupted Billy to say with quiet decision.

"Now that is what I call some church relation, nursery and parsonage

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combined," said Billy with the deepest gratitude. "The rest of you hurry

over those muffins, even if you haven't had any of Mammy's for six

months, and, since the chicken fry is off, go home to get suppers and

ready for psalm-singing and foxing. Parson, you are some sport, and I'll

hold both of those puppies while you drink your tea from the hands of

fair Charlotte."

"Thank you, I don't believe I want any tea after all, and I think I'll

take these 'puppies' on home with me through the garden, for they are

both dying to the world." As he spoke the parson rose to his feet and

stood with the two drowsing babies in his arms, looking down at me as I

stood with his cup of tea in my hand. And as he looked I felt my whole

rebellious heart and mind laid bare and I knew that he knew that I was

ready to fight him to the last ditch in the battle for possession of the

souls of my friends. I would fight for their independence of thought

and sincerity of life, and he would fight to lead them off into a far

country in quest of what I considered a tradition, a shibboleth, "a

potent agent for intoxication" of the reason by which man must progress.

I also knew that I faced a foe versed in the warfare between religion

and modern scientific decisions about it and that he would be one worthy

of my metal. His refusal of my cup of tea, for which he had announced

that he came, was his gauntlet and I accepted it as I turned with the

queer sugared rage in my heart and set the cup on the table.

And as I had planned, and the Jaguar directed, the evening came to pass.

While I slipped into some dancing fluff, the strains of the most

wonderful hymn that the Christian religion possesses floated across my

garden and into my window and again beat against my heart. The parson

was singing with the rest of them, but his voice seemed to lift theirs

and bear them aloft on the strong, wide wings that went soaring away

into the night, even up to the bright stars that gleamed beyond the tips

of the old graybeard poplars. A queer tight breath gripped my heart for

a second as his plea, "Abide with me, fast falls the eventide," beat

against it, then I laughed it away.