"I can't, of course, question the justice of your decision," he said
shortly, and touched his hat and walked away without another word.
I considered this as one of the least among my many trials and
perplexities. Oftentimes I sighed for the light-hearted, "irresponsible"
days of yore, when "missions" were, as yet, to me unknown.
School was the greatest perplexity. Grandma Keeler's tenderness grew more
impressive each day.
"It seems to me you're a growin' bleak and holler-eyed, teacher," she
would say to me when I came home at night.
So I indulged more and more in a deeply sentimental self-pity, and felt a
growing satisfaction in the consciousness that I was enduring martyrdom.
It was more by reason of a stubborn and desperate pride, I think, than
from higher motives, that, in my letters home, I said nothing of the
discomforts and discouragements which attended my course. I chose to
dilate on the beautiful scenery of Wallencamp, and the quaint originality
of its inhabitants.
CHAPTER V.
GRANDMA KEELER GETS GRANDPA READY FOR SUNDAY SCHOOL.
Sunday morning nothing arose in Wallencamp save the sun.
At least, that celestial orb had long forgotten all the roseate flaming
of his youth, in an honest, straightforward march through the heavens,
ere the first signs of smoke came curling lazily up from the Wallencamp
chimneys.
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