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Updated: June 4, 2025
It's what all my people have always done." Then Catie made her blunder. "What about your father?" she asked, and her voice was taunting. Scott forgot his holy heritage and turned upon her swiftly. "Shut up!" he bade her curtly, and her cheek tingled under the blow he dealt her. It was the first time in his life that Scott had turned upon her with decision.
Had she answered sincerely to any questions put to her, she would have confessed to a two-fold purpose: the showing off of her proprietorship in Scott, and the showing off of her pair of new frocks, the most elaborate achievements as yet attempted by the village dressmaker. It must be confessed, however, that Catie found both of these deeds a little disillusioning.
It was when young Opdyke's eyes passed on to rest on Catie, though, that Scott felt certain doubts, lately risen up within him, crystallize and solidify past all gainsaying.
One's theology, like one's brims, should broaden with the fashion; the forms of worship might as well grow high as the outline of one's hat-crown. Given the three main elements of best clothes, a Sunday on which to wear them and an appreciative church to wear them in, and Catie asked no further consolations of religion. The tolerance Scott liked, although he deplored the cause. "Lovely, Scott!"
Moreover, perchance it would have been better for him, had it not been the last. For three days afterward, the subject was as a sealed book between them. Then Catie broke the seals, and gingerly. "I have been thinking about your being a minister," she told him, as she dropped into step beside him, on the way to school.
A week later, she had given him his grandfather's great gold pen, albeit with plentiful instructions to the effect that he was not to use it, but to keep it in its box, untarnished, until such time as he was fitted to employ it in writing sermons of his own. Scott had received the gift with veneration, and then quite promptly had summoned Catie to do reverence at the selfsame shrine.
Not only that; but Catie, by dint of many questions, had discovered why the Methodist minister's wife was buried in the churchyard with a slice of marble set up on top of her, and why the blacksmith's bob-tailed cat lacked the major portion of her left ear. If ever there was a gossip in the making, it was Catie Harrison.
Her son felt no difficulty in applying the question to Catie, the proper object, rather than to the sausages on which his mother's gaze was bent. "About as usual," he said temperately. His mother laughed out suddenly. The laugh brought back to her face a faint resemblance to the girl who, as the pretty daughter of old Parson Wheeler, had been the acknowledged belle of all the small community.
For the present moment, though, he was a trifle problematic in his attractions. "What shall we call him, Catie?" Scott asked her gently, the second night after the boy was born. Her frown was petulant. "Catie!" she echoed. "Why can't you call me Katharine, Scott? It is so much more dignified than that old baby name.
Then it was Opdyke who broke the silence. "Who's the girl, Brenton? "She's " Scott hesitated, a little at a loss as to the proper way of cataloguing Catie. Opdyke nodded at the hesitation. "Ja. I comprehend. Well, she's a pretty thing, and she knows her good points," he answered. "That counts a lot, too, in a girl like that."
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