Poor Arthur!
She herself expected to be taken home by the O'Neills, but to her
surprise she found her father waiting in the church vestibule. He
said he had decided to come and hear the new minister, and Missy
never suspected it was the unrest of a father who sees his little
girl trying to become a big girl that had dragged him from his
house-slippers and smoking-jacket this snowy evening.
They walked homeward through the swirling flakes in silence. That
was one reason why Missy enjoyed being with her father--she could be
so companionably silent with him. She trudged along beside him,
half-consciously trying to match his stride, while her thoughts flew
far afield.
But presently father spoke.
"He's very eloquent, isn't he?"
"He?--who?" She struggled to get her thoughts back home.
Her father peered at her through the feathery gloom.
"Why, the preacher--Reverend MacGill."
"Oh, yes." She shook herself mentally. "He's perfectly fasci--" she
broke off, remembering she was talking to a grown-up. "He's very
inspired," she amended.
Another pause. Again it was father who spoke first.
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