Missy had already heard reports of him. Some of the
Methodist girls declared that though ugly he was perfectly
fascinating; and grandpa and grandma Merriam, who were Methodists
(as had been her own father before he married mother, a
Presbyterian), granted that he was human as well as inspired.
As Missy entered the Methodist church that evening with the
O'Neills, it didn't occur to her memory that it was in this very
edifice she had once felt the flame divine. It was once when her
mother was away visiting and her less rigidly strict grandparents
had let her stay up evenings and attend revival meetings with them.
But all that had happened long ago--five years ago, when she was a
little thing of ten. One forgets much in five years. So she felt no
stir of memory and no presentiment of a coincidence to come.
Reverend MacGill, the new minister, at first disappointed her. He
was tall and gaunt; and his face was long and gaunt, lighted with
deep-set, smouldering, dark eyes and topped with an unruly thatch of
dark hair. Missy thought him terribly ugly until he smiled, and then
she wasn't quite so sure.
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