“Well,” said the doctor, restraining his scorn with a mighty effort, “I’d like to see you prove it oncet!”

“I can prove it right out of the Bible!  Do you want better proof than that, Doc?  The Bible says in so many words, ’There’s nothing new under the sun.’  There!  You can’t come over that there, can you?  You don’t consider into them things enough, Doc.  You ain’t a religious man, that ’s the trouble!”

“I got religion a plenty, but I don’t hold to no sich dumm thoughts!”

“Did you get your religion at Bethel rewiwal?” Mrs. Getz quickly asked, glancing up from the little stocking she was darning, to look with some interest at the doctor.  “I wanted to go over oncet before the rewiwal’s done.  But now Tillie’s sick, mebbe I won’t get to go fur all.  When they have rewiwals at Bethel they always make so!  And,” she added, resuming her darning, “I like to see ’em jump that way.  My, but they jump, now, when they get happy!  But I didn’t get to go this year yet.”

“Well, and don’t you get affected too?” the doctor asked, “and go out to the mourners’ bench?”

“If I do?  No, I go just to see ’em jump,” she monotonously repeated.  “I wasn’t never conwerted.  Mister he’s a hard Evangelical, you know.”

“And what does he think of your unconwerted state?” the doctor jocularly inquired.

“What he thinks?  There’s nothing to think,” was the stolid answer.

“Up there to Bethel rewiwal,” said Mr. Getz, “they don’t stay conwerted.  Till rewiwal’s over, they’re off church again.”

“It made awful funny down there this two weeks back,” repeated Mrs. Getz.  “They jumped so.  Now there’s the Lutherans, they don’t make nothin’ when they conwert themselves.  They don’t jump nor nothin’.  I don’t like their meetin’s.  It’s onhandy Tillie got sick fur me just now.  I did want to go oncet.  Here ‘s all this mendin’ she could have did, too.  She ‘s handier at sewin’ than what I am, still.  I always had so much other work, I never come at sewin’, and I ’m some dopplig at it.”

“Yes?—­yes,” said the doctor, rising to go.  “Well, Tillie, good-by, and don’t set up nights any more readin’ novels,” he laughed.

“She ain’t likely to,” said her father.  “My childern don’t generally do somepin like that again after I once ketch ’em at it.  Ain’t so, Tillie?  Well, then, Doc, you think she ain’t serious?”

“I said I can’t tell till I’ve saw her again a’ready.”

“How long will it go till you come again?”

“Well,” the doctor considered, “it looks some fur fallin’ weather —­ain’t?  If it rains and the roads are muddy till morning, so ’s I can’t drive fast, I won’t mebbe be here till ten o’clock.”

“Oh, doctor,” whispered Tillie, in a tone of distress, “can’t I go to school?  Can’t I?  I’ll be well enough, won’t I?  It’s Friday to-morrow, and I—­I want to go!” she sobbed.  “I want to go to Miss Margaret!”