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Updated: May 13, 2025
"I want to join the church," he said bluntly. The rector, a kindly, middle-aged man, with a love for children, turned to him in half-puzzled, half-sympathetic inquiry. "You are young, my child," he replied, "to be so zealous a Christian." "'Tain't that, sir," said the boy slowly. "I don't set much store by that. But I've got to go to heaven because I can't see Thomas Jefferson no other way."
The man, toiling painfully along that hard road, on that bitter day, with hands and feet half frost-bitten, and face smarting as if with fire, his aching lungs straining with the icy air, felt that he and the woman struggling over the same road had common cause for wrath against this stress of nature, and so made that half-surly, half-sympathetic grunt as he passed her. But she did not respond.
"Doctor Churchill," she said, as he approached her, hat in hand, "I was very rude to you just now. I am sorry." She held out her hand. Doctor Churchill took it. Charlotte's thick black lashes swept her cheek, and she did not see the look, half-laughing, half-sympathetic, which rested on her downcast face. "It's all right," said Doctor Churchill's low, clear voice.
I think you must go away. You must have a change of scene and you must see people. I will find your mother. Good-morning, Miss Callender." And with that the doctor shook hands in his half-sympathetic, half-reserved manner, and went out into the hall. Mrs. Callender, who was waiting at the top of the stairs, came down and encountered him.
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