And as to the boy.  If he had blabbed what he saw, it was incredible that somebody should not take the subject up, and impart a scandalous twist to it, and send it rolling like a snowball to gather up exaggeration and foul innuendo till it was big enough to overwhelm him.  What would happen to him if a formal charge were preferred against him?  He looked it up in the Discipline.  Of course, if his accusers magnified their mean suspicions and calumnious imaginings to the point of formulating a charge, it would be one of immorality.  They could prove nothing; there was nothing to prove.  At the worst, it was an indiscretion, which would involve his being admonished by his Presiding Elder.  Or if these narrow bigots confused slanders with proofs, and showed that they intended to convict him, then it would be open to him to withdraw from the ministry, in advance of his condemnation.  His relation to the church would be the same as if he had been expelled, but to the outer world it would be different.  And supposing he did withdraw from the ministry?

Yes; this was the important point.  What if he did abandon this mistaken profession of his?  On its mental side the relief would be prodigious, unthinkable.  But on the practical side, the bread-and-butter side?  For some days Theron paused with a shudder when he reached this question.  The thought of the plunge into unknown material responsibilities gave him a sinking heart.  He tried to imagine himself lecturing, canvassing for books or insurance policies, writing for newspapers—­and remained frightened.  But suddenly one day it occurred to him that these qualms and forebodings were sheer folly.  Was not Celia rich?  Would she not with lightning swiftness draw forth that check-book, like the flashing sword of a champion from its scabbard, and run to his relief?  Why, of course.  It was absurd not to have thought of that before.

He recalled her momentary anger with him, that afternoon in the woods, when he had cried out that discovery would mean ruin to him.  He saw clearly enough now that she had been grieved at his want of faith in her protection.  In his flurry of fright, he had lost sight of the fact that, if exposure and trouble came to him, she would naturally feel that she had been the cause of his martyrdom.  It was plain enough now.  If he got into hot water, it would be solely on account of his having been seen with her.  He had walked into the woods with her—­“the further the better” had been her own words—­out of pure kindliness, and the desire to lead her away from the scene of her brother’s and her own humiliation.  But why amplify arguments?  Her own warm heart would tell her, on the instant, how he had been sacrificed for her sake, and would bring her, eager and devoted, to his succor.