and put a loaf of Mary's bread beside the fried otatoes.
"Show us that our souls go marching on like old John Brown's," said the young man, persuasively, "and you'll have all Lost Chief eating out of your hand."
"You talk of faith," cried Fowler impatiently, "as if it were a problem in algebra."
Douglas hesitated. "Maybe I do." His voice suddenly trembled.
Fowler paused as he was about to seat himself at the table. "I hear a horse!" he said.
Douglas went to the door.
"It's just me!" called Grandma Brown's voice. "Come and help me down. I was up to see your mother this afternoon," she went on as Douglas helped her dismount, "and I thought I'd come along up and have a visit with the preacher."
"That's fine!" exclaimed Douglas. "Come in, Grandma. We're just drawing up to the table."
"Good," sighed the old lady; "I'm half starved. Howdy, Mr. Fowler! Haven't had enough of Lost Chief yet, huh?"
The preacher rose and shook hands. "Not yet, Mrs. Brown! Will you draw up?"
The old lady plumped down at the table and Douglas loaded her plate and poured her a cup of coffee. "The older folks," she said abruptly, "won't make you any trouble. Charleton Falkner and some of his pals will be smarty, but the young fry will sure try to break up every meeting you have."
"The modern youngster is pretty rough!" sighed the preacher.
"Here in Lost Chief," agreed Grandma promptly, "they are the most rough-and-tumble, catch-as-catch-can
