Peach buds were swelling, trees were in bloom, birds chirped around them, but Mary and crippled Budda Ben sat on the wood-pile talking so earnestly she completely forgot to enjoy the morning's bright sunshine. Misery filled his dull red-rimmed eyes. His high-pitched outbursts of fury were pitiful. Mary begged him to be quiet, not to make himself sick. Ranting could do no good in the world; what was done was done.
Ben was raving against all the preachers and church deacons in the whole world, cursing them, hoping they would have to hop in Perdition's hottest flames until that fire itself froze stiff. They did a low-down trick when they turned him out of the church yesterday. He would never forgive them. Never. They were a dirty bunch of rascals.
When they called that meeting Friday night to examine all the members of the church and see if they were living right enough to take the Lord's Supper on Sunday, he knew they were up to something.
One by one they passed every single member
