They was countin' up what 't would cost in parish meetin',
an' she riz right up an' said 't wouldn't cost nothin' to let 'em
stay, an' there wa'n't a house carpenter left in the parish that could
do such nice work, an' time would come when the great-grandchildren
would give their eye-teeth to have the old meetin'-house look just as
it did then. But haul the inside to pieces they would and did."
"There come to be a real fight over it, didn't there?" agreed Mrs.
Trimble soothingly. "Well, 't wa'n't good taste. I remember the old
house well. I come here as a child to visit a cousin o' mother's, an'
Mr. Trimble's folks was neighbors, an' we was drawed to each other
then, young's we was. Mr. Trimble spoke of it many's the time,--that
first time he ever see me, in a leghorn hat with a feather; 't was one
that mother had, an' pressed over."
"When I think of them old sermons that used to be preached in that old
meetin'-house of all, I'm glad it's altered over, so's not to remind
folks," said Miss Rebecca Wright, after a suitable pause. "Them old
brimstone discourses, you know, Mis' Trimble. Preachers is far more
reasonable, nowadays. Why, I set an' thought, last Sabbath, as I
listened, that if old Mr. Longbrother an' Deacon Bray could hear the
difference they'd crack the ground over 'em like pole beans, an' come
right up 'long side their headstones."
Mrs. Trimble laughed heartily, and shook the reins three or four times
by way of emphasis.
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