Van Berg determined to overtake Ida before she reached the hotel,
and his strides were as long and swift as mortal dread could make
them.
In the meantime, while the artist was making the detour necessary
to reach the drug-store without meeting Ida, she and her companions
had started homeward. As they approached a church on the outskirts
of the village, the bell in the steeple commenced tolling.
"What's that for?" asked a young man of the party of a plain,
farmer-like appearing man, who was just about to enter.
"For prayer-meetin'," was the good-natured reply. "It wouldn't
hurt you to come to it;" and the speaker passed into the lecture-room.
"I call this frivolous assemblage to order," cried the youth,
turning around to his companions. "If any one of our number has
ever attended a prayer-meeting, let him hold up his right hand.
I use the masculine pronoun, because the man always embraces the
woman--when he gets a chance."
No hands were held up.
"Heathen, every mother's son of us," cried the first speaker.
"The daughters are angels, of course, and don't need to go to
prayer-meetin', as he of the cowhide sandals just termed it. But
for the novelty of the thing, and for the want of something better
to do, I move that we all go to-night.
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