“Go, get some of your best preserves, Wilson,” he ordered, “and stop sulking, woman, stop sulking.  What if we did have a quarrel, woman?  A good squall clears the air and briskens things up.  But no drizzling and fogging afterwards—­no drizzling and fogging, woman.  I can’t stand that.  Temper in a woman but no tears for me.  Here, girl, is some messed up meat and potatoes for you.  Begin on that.  Wilson has some fancy name for it, but I call lit macanaccady.  Anything I can’t analyze in the eating line I call macanaccady and anything wet that puzzles me I call shallamagouslem.  Wilson’s tea is shallamagouslem.  I swear she makes it out of burdocks.  Don’t take any of the ungodly black liquid—­here’s some milk for you.  What did you say your name was?”

“Faith.”

“No name that—­no name that!  I can’t stomach such a name.  Got any other?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t like the name, don’t like it.  There’s no smeddum to it.  Besides, it makes me think of my Aunt Jinny.  She called her three girls Faith, Hope, and Charity.  Faith didn’t believe in anything—­Hope was a born pessimist—­and Charity was a miser.  You ought to be called Red Rose—­you look like one when you’re mad.  I’ll call you Red Rose.  And you’ve roped me into promising to go to church?  But only once a month, remember—­only once a month.  Come now, girl, will you let me off?  I used to pay a hundred to the salary every year and go to church.  If I promise to pay two hundred a year will you let me off going to church?  Come now!”

“No, no, sir,” said Faith, dimpling roguishly.  “I want you to go to church, too.”

“Well, a bargain is a bargain.  I reckon I can stand it twelve times a year.  What a sensation it’ll make the first Sunday I go!  And old Susan Baker says I’m going to hell, hey?  Do you believe I’ll go there—­come, now, do you?”

“I hope not, sir,” stammered Faith in some confusion.

“Why do you hope not?  Come, now, why do you hope not?  Give us a reason, girl—­give us a reason.”

“It—­it must be a very—­uncomfortable place, sir.”

“Uncomfortable?  All depends on your taste in comfortable, girl.  I’d soon get tired of angels.  Fancy old Susan in a halo, now!”

Faith did fancy it, and it tickled her so much that she had to laugh.  Norman eyed her approvingly.

“See the fun of it, hey?  Oh, I like you—­you’re great.  About this church business, now—­can your father preach?”

“He is a splendid preacher,” said loyal Faith.

“He is, hey?  I’ll see—­I’ll watch out for flaws.  He’d better be careful what he says before me.  I’ll catch him—­I’ll trip him up—­I’ll keep tabs on his arguments.  I’m bound to have some fun out of this church going business.  Does he ever preach hell?”

“No—­o—­o—­I don’t think so.”