He stood by the pulpit, tears in his eyes, his meaty hands clutching the cover of the great leather Bible till it cracked.
The door at the other end of the aisle was opening, and he saw a vision standing on the threshold in the June sun.
He remembered afterward, from some forgotten literary adventure in college, a couplet which signified to him the young woman who was looking at him from the door:
Crowned with calm leaves she stands.
She was younger than himself, yet she suggested a serene maturity, a gracious pride. She was slender, but her bosom was full, and some day she might be portly. Her face was lovely, her forehead wide, her brown eyes trusting, and smooth her chestnut hair. She had taken off her rose-trimmed straw hat and was swinging it in her large and graceful hands. . . . Virginal, stately, kind, most generous.
She came placidly down the aisle, a hand out, crying, "It's Reverend Gantry, isn't it? I'm so proud to be the first to welcome you here in the church! I'm Cleo Benham—I lead the choir. Perhaps you've seen Papa—he's a trustee—he has the store."
"You sure are the first to welcome me, Sister Benham, and it's a mighty great pleasure to meet you! Yes, your father was so nice as to invite me for supper tonight."
They shook hands with ceremony and sat beaming at each other in a front pew. He informed her that he was certain there was "going to be a great spiritual awakening here," and she told him what lovely people there were in the congregation, in the village, in the entire surrounding country. And her panting breast told him that she, the daughter of the village magnate, had instantly fallen in love with him.
Cleo Benham had spent three years in the Sparta Women's College, specializing in piano, organ, French, English literature, strictly expurgated, and study of the Bible. Returned to Banjo Crossing, she was a fervent church-worker. She played the organ and rehearsed the choir; she was the superintendent
