The next Sunday the Reverend Hugh Grantley was at his
best, and his sermons had a new quality that appealed to
and comforted many a weary one who, like himself, was
traveling by the thorn-road.
In Mrs. McGuire's little house there was nothing to
disturb the reading now, for the minister came no more,
but the joyousness had all gone from Mary's voice, and
Mrs. McGuire found herself losing all interest in
Christian's struggles as she looked at Mary's face.
Once she saw the minister pass and she beat upon the
window with her knitting needle, but he hurried by without
looking up. Then the anger of Mrs. McGuire was kindled
mightily, and she sometimes woke up in the night to
express her opinion of him in the most lurid terms she
could think of, feeling meanwhile the futility of human
speech. It was a hard position for Mrs. McGuire, who had
always been able to settle her own affairs with ease and
grace.
One day when this had been going on about a month, Mrs.
McGuire sat in her chintz-covered rocking-chair and
thought hard, for something had to be done. She narrowed
her black eyes into slits and thought and thought. Suddenly
she started as if she heard something, and perhaps she
did--the angel who brought the inspiration may have
whirred his wings a little.
Mary Barner was coming that afternoon to "red up" a little
for her, for her rheumatism had been very bad. With
wonderful agility she rose and made ready for bed.
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