He stopped at sight of a small figure running under the apple trees, and a minute later Patsey, the Gay’s maid, reached the flagged walk and panted out a request that Miss Molly should come to the house for a birthday present which awaited her there.

“Won’t you go with me, grandfather?” asked the girl, turning to Reuben.

“I ain’t at home thar, Molly,” answered the old man.  “It’s well enough to preach equality an’ what not when you’re walking on the opposite side of the road, as Abel would say, but it don’t ring true while yo’ feet are slippin’ an’ slidin’ over a parlour floor.”

“Then I shan’t go without you.  Where you aren’t welcome is a place I can stay away from.”

“Thar, thar, honey, don’t be runnin’ arter Abel’s notions till you find out whar they’re leadin’ you.  Things are better as they are or the Lord wouldn’t have made ’em so, an’ He ain’t goin’ to step a bit faster or slower on o’ count of our ragin’.  Some folks were meant to be on top an’ some at bottom, for t’otherwise God Almighty wouldn’t have put ’em thar.  Abel is like Sarah, only his generation is different.”

“Do you really think he’s like his mother?” asked Molly a little wistfully.

“As haw is like haw.  They’re both bent on doin’ the Lord’s job over again an’ doin’ it better, an’ thar manner of goin’ to work would be to melt up human natur an’ pour it all into the same pattern.  It ain’t never entered Sarah’s head that you can’t fit the same religion to every man any mo’ than you can the same pair of breeches.  The big man takes the big breeches an’ the little man takes the small ones, an’ it’s jest the same with religion.  It may be cut after one pattern, but it’s mighty apt to get its shape from the wearer inside.  Why, thar ain’t any text so peaceable that it ain’t drawn blood from somebody.”

“All the same I shan’t go a step without you,” persisted the girl.

“Then find my stick an’ straighten my collar.  Or had I better put on my Sunday black?”

“No, I like you as you are—­only let me smooth your hair a little.  Run ahead, Patsey, and say we’re both coming.”

Slipping her arm in his, she led him through the orchard, where the bluebirds were fluting blissfully in the apple-trees.  To the heart of each spring was calling—­but to Molly it meant promise and to Reuben remembrance.  Though the bluebirds sang only one song, they brought to the old man and to the girl a different music.

“I’ve sometimes thought Mr. Mullen better suited to you than Abel, Molly,” said Reuben presently, uttering an idea that had come to him more than once.  “If you’d been inclined to fancy him, I don’t believe either Mrs. Gay or Miss Kesiah could have found any fault with him.”

“But you know I couldn’t care for him, grandfather,” protested Molly impatiently.  “He is like one of Mrs. Bottom’s air plants that grow without any roots.”

“Well, he’s young yet an’ his soul struts a trifle, but wait till he’s turned fifty an’ he’ll begin to be as good a Christian as he is a parson.  It’s a good mould, but he congealed a bit too stiff when he was poured into it.”