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."

They reached the grape arbour as he finished, and a minute later
Abednego lead them into the library