“Gracious goodness!” she exclaimed.  “I wouldn’t advise you to do that.  You ain’t been here long enough to make forenoon calls.  If you should catch some of the women in this town with aprons and calico on, they’d never forgive you in this world.  Wait till afternoon; they’ll be expectin’ you then and they’ll be rigged out in their best bibs and tuckers.  S’pose you found Annabel Daniels with her hair done up in curl papers; what do you think would happen?  Mornin’s are no time for ministers’ calls.  Even old Mr. Langley never made calls in the forenoon—­and he’d been here thirty-odd years.”

“All right, you know best.  Much obliged for the advice.  Then I’ll simply take my walk and leave the calls until later.”

“I’d be back by ten, though.  Folks’ll begin callin’ on you by that time.”

“They will?  Doesn’t the rule work both ways?”

“Not with new ministers it don’t.  Cat’s foot!  You don’t s’pose Didama Rogers and Laviny Pepper and their kind’ll wait any longer’n they can help afore they come to see what you look like, do you?”

“Well, they must have seen me when I preached here before.  I remember—­”

“Mercy on us! that was in meetin’.  Meetin’s diff’rent.  All they could say to you then was how much they liked your sermon.  They say that to every minister that comes, no matter how they may pick him to pieces afterwards.  But here they can ask you questions; about how you came to come here and what you think of it far’s you’ve got, and what your views are on certain points in the creed.  Likewise, who your folks were and whether they was well off, and a few things like that.  Then they’ll want to see what kind of clothes you wear and—­”

“Whew!” Ellery whistled.  “You’re unfolding a pleasant prospect for me, I must say.  Am I supposed to be catechized on all of my private affairs?”

“Of course!  A minister hasn’t got any private affairs; he’s a public character.  There!” she laughed, as she poured the coffee, “I mustn’t discourage you.  But don’t you see that every mother’s son—­and, for that matter, every daughter and children’s child unto the third and fourth generation—­feel that, so long as they pay pew rent or put a cent in the collection, they own a share in you.  And we always keep a watch on our investments down this way.  That’s the Yankee shrewdness you read so much about, I guess.”

The minister absently played with his spoon.

“I’m afraid you’re a cynic,” he said.

“No, no, I ain’t.  Though sometimes, considerin’ everything, I feel as though I had excuse enough if I wanted to belong to that tribe.  But you’re young.  You mustn’t mind my sayin’ that; if you was old, of course, I wouldn’t talk about ages.  But you are young and this is your first church.  So you must start right.  I’m no cynic, bless you.  I’ve got trust in human nature left—­most kinds of human nature.  If I hadn’t, I’d have more money, I s’pose.  Perhaps you’ve noticed that those who trust a good deal are usually poor.  It’s all right, Mr. Ellery; you go and take your walk.  And I’ll walk into that pantry closet.  It’ll be a good deal like walkin’ into the Slough of Despond, but Christian came out on the other side and I guess likely I will, if the supply of soapsuds holds out.”