Scene from the Play.]
The Sunday-school had risen to its feet and was slowly droning "Yield not
to temptation," etc. The situation was odd enough. Mr. Rollin's repressed
laughing voice was in my ear: "Will you yield?" and I yielded.
At the close of the Sunday-school, as we were going out of the church, I
told Grandma that I should drive home with Emily's fisherman.
She drew me gravely to one side. "We shall be very sorry to lose your
company, teacher," she said; "only we hadn't ought to lose no precious
opportunity, and I do hope as you'll labor for that young man's soul." I
felt hopelessly conscience-stricken.
We drove home through "Lost Cedars"--a good many miles out of the
ordinary course--and I was cheerfully consenting to the divergence.
Wild and tenantless, in the midst of a wild and tenantless landscape,
Lost Cedars wore that air of lovely, though utter, desolation which might
easily have suggested its name.
There was a still unfrozen lake, which the setting sun, more like the sun
of an Italian winter than of rugged New England, was painting in gorgeous
colors, when we reached the place.
"We come fishing here, sometimes," said Mr.
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