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 every waking moment at some task about the house or for her children or for her husband or for the church. At this moment, David did not think of his mother; the soul of that steeple, the soul of that home, the very soul of the town itself seemed to be his father. Not only to David but to every one in this town his father's pronouncements were known. Men could defy them, as David himself had defied them; but no one could ignore them. They cast on the defensive the proprietor of the pool hall, Cullen, and Lorber, Mr. Fuller and David himself; for his father fought for a standard of life—a bigoted and narrow and out-of-date standard, men might say; David himself might say it—still it was a standard for decency and right. Suppose that standard altogether fell, David thought. Suppose his father deserted it; suppose his father abandoned the faith, which David himself was denying. Suppose that steeple, with no belief below it, merely pointed to an empty sky.

The idea shook David; he caught at Fidelia's sleeve. "There's father's church," he said huskily and tried to clear his throat and could not. "Our house is right beside it."

The train stopped and, when the parlor-car porter had raised the trap over the steps and placed his little stool for Fidelia's feet, David followed his wife to the ground. Idlers, who always were about the station, saw her and came closer, staring; they saw David, the preacher's son, coming from the parlor car. "Hello, Dave!" they hailed in frank surprise.

David replied to them by name and he drew Fidelia