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Updated: June 2, 2025
Paul says "puffeth up," and prepared to pass a brilliant examination on the history and customs of Whitsuntide. Very different was the pastor's sermon of that morning, which several of our girls remembered all their lives. Its text was: "Ye are the temples of the Holy Ghost."
She told him of the lamb which had tumbled down over a steep precipice and still was unhurt, of the baby who pulled the pastor's hair last Sunday during the baptismal ceremony, or of the lumberman, Lars, who drank the kerosene his wife gave him for brandy, and never knew the difference.
None, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. Old Squire Saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory, neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless the food, almost every Sunday since his settlement.
"You look it." "It is because of the good pastor's hatred of me. You were not at Church last Lord's day?" "No; I was in Boston." "Hath not your mother told you of it?" "She told me nothing." Her sad eyes seemed to swim in tears, and Charles entreated her to tell him what Mr. Parris had said of her.
Guide was wrong, there could be no doubt of that: would it be right, then, merely for the sake of apparent peace and unity, for him, the deacon, to seem to agree with his pastor's peculiar views? The deacon made it a matter of prayer, and the result was that he remained at home.
The pastor's sermon was about Ioba and his tefa pua, which he scraped with poa, the shells of the beach. He pictured the man of patience as if in Tautira, with his three faithless friends, Elifazi, Bilidadi, and Tofari, urging him to deny God and to sin; and the speaker struck the railing with his fist when he enumerated the possessions taken from Ioba by God, but returned a hundredfold.
The curate sat with him until the dinner hour, when, leaning on the pastor's arm, Rainscourt walked down the street, in all the trappings of his woe, and his eyes never once raised from the ground. "There's Mr Rainscourt! There's Mr Rainscourt!" whispered some of the promenaders who were coming up the street. "No! that's not him." "Yes it is, walking with Mr Potts!
My earliest recollections were connected with these faces, when, at church or school in the pleasant Summer-time, in one we listened to the good Irish pastor's "sixteenthly" and "seventeenthly" and "in conclusion" as sedately as our seniors; and in the other we took our regular flogging, as prescribed by the lamented Solomon.
She would be industrious, she said, and do everything that she could; she did not mind about the wages as long as she had a roof over her, and was with good people. The pastor's wife had pity on her, and took her into service. And she was industrious and thoughtful. She sat quiet and listened when the pastor read aloud from the Bible in the evening.
But they knocked long in vain; the sound was swallowed up in the howling of the wind, which raged awesomely through the chimneys. Then Freneli lost patience; in place of Uli's reverent knock she now tried her own, and it was such that the indwellers started up from their seats and the pastor's wife cried, "Mercy on us, what's that?"
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