She knew who had ironed that handkerchief on Wednesday, which was Mrs.
Mullen's washing day, and her heart rejoiced as she remembered the care
with which she had folded the creases.
It made no difference, said Mr. Mullen, replacing the handkerchief
somewhere under his white surplice, whether a woman was ugly or
beautiful, since they possessed Scriptural authority for the statement
that beauty was vain, and no God-fearing man would rank loveliness of
face or form above the capacity for self-sacrifice and the unfailing
attendance upon the sick and the afflicted in any parish. Beauty,
indeed, was but too often a snare for the unwary--temptresses, he had
been told, were usually beautiful persons.
Molly's lips trembled into a smile, and her eyes were wide and bright as
she met those of the preacher. For an instant he looked at her, gentle,
admonishing, reproachful--then his gaze passed over Judy's seraphic
features to the face of an old grey horse that stared wonderingly in
through the south window. Along the whitewashed plank fence of the
church-yard, other horses were waiting patiently for the service to
end, and from several side saddles, of an ancient pattern, hung flopping
alpaca riding skirts, which the farmer's wives or daughters had worn
over their best gowns to church.
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