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"You asked for Leighton's place, and this here's it. Now, if you want suthin' else, all you've got to do is to say so." He folded his arms with the air of being only too well accustomed to the vagaries of city people, an implication which his passengers were too elated to notice.
One hand rested on Leighton's arm; her face was lifted steadily to his, like a flower to the light; her violet eyes were dewy and sparkling with happiness. There were little clutches of her fingers on his wrist whenever he turned to look at her. There were spasms of joy in her slender and somewhat wasted frame as she leaned from time to time against his shoulder.
"Yes, Auntie, and I must ask you to excuse me. Some of my Sunday-school class are coming to practise their carols, and conclude a little holiday preparation, and I hear them now on the steps." "Did Mitchell show you Leighton's telegram?" "He told me the good news, that at the last moment Leighton had filled his pulpit for the holidays, and would preach for us on Christmas.
Having taken in all the surroundings at a glance, Leighton's eyes finally fell upon Folly. She lay in a puzzling, soft glow of light. Resting high on the pillows, she reached scarcely half-way down the length of the great bed. For a second they looked at each other solemnly.
Lewis's eyes were laughing, but Leighton's grew suddenly grave. "Poor old chap!" he said. "He didn't know that time rots the sanest argument. 'Oh... that mine adversary had written a book, cried one who knew." Leighton sat thoughtful for a moment, then he threw up his head. "Well," he said, "we'll give up trying to find out how you got educated. Let's change the subject.
"Very good, sir," replied the sergeant major. "I shall report myself at once." The day following, the chaplain received an order to appear before the O. C. in the orderly room. "Captain Dunbar, I understand that you are making a charge against Sergeant Major McFetteridge," was Colonel Leighton's greeting. "I am making no charge against any one, sir," replied Barry quietly.
On the way home Patricia told Elinor of the suspicions that had been whispered about Doris Leighton's part in the initiation, and, much to her satisfaction, Elinor was as indignant as she had been. "I can't see how they can be so unfriendly to her," she said warmly. "She is so kind and agreeable.
"Grapes, you're brutal! Since when have you learned to trample on a woman?" "That's better," said Leighton, coolly. "I thought it would rouse you a bit." Vi almost smiled at herself. She laid her hand on Leighton's arm and turned him toward the door. "And they still say that no man knows women," she said. She paused and looked back at the fragments of the statue. Her lips twisted.
This passage is not to be found in the writings of any extravagant Plymouth Brother, but in one of the most solid classics of the Church, in Archbishop Leighton's Commentary on the First Epistle of Peter.
Thank goodness, mine's done at last," and she drifted off to sleep with a jumble of prize designs and golden dreams for the future mingling with that recurring memory of Doris Leighton's hardening face as she spoke of her study for the library panel.
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