They
were a bit nervous, remembering the diabolic uproar about Faith,
Hope, and Charity. Mr. Haile was a mild-mannered little man of the
saved-sheep type, with box-plaited teeth and a bleating voice. His
wife had the worried face and the anxious eyes of the minister's
helpmeet, and the painfully ready smile for newcomers who might, or
might not, prove desirable parishioners.
She wanted to be nice to us as a Christian woman to women, but not
too nice as the minister's wife of a church whose members looked
upon us as interlopers. I had deputed Judge Gatchell to inform the
trustees that the suit was dropped. I suppose Mrs. Haile was timid
about broaching the delicate subject, for she ignored it with a
nervous intensity that made me feel sorry for her. She and Mr. Haile
would call just as soon as it was convenient for us to receive
visitors; and then they shook hands with us, and I think they
breathed a sigh of relief.
"Oh, Sophy! And we've got to keep on going there!--next Sunday, and
Sunday after next Sunday, and maybe every Sunday after that until we
die! Perhaps after a while some of them will bow to us, or maybe
even say, 'How do you do?' _but_ we'll feel as if we'd been put in
cold storage every time we enter that door!" wailed Alicia.
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