One has twenty-four hours to the day in a South Carolina town—­plenty of time to live in, so that one can afford to do things unhurriedly and has leisure to be neighborly.  For you do have neighbors here.  It is true that they know all your business and who and what your grandfather was and wasn’t, and they are prone to discuss it with a frankness to make the scalp prickle.  But then, you know theirs, too, and you are at liberty to employ the same fearsome frankness, provided you do it politely and are not speaking to an outsider.  It is perfectly permissible for you to say exactly what you please about your own people to your own people, but should an outsider and an alien presume to do likewise, the Carolina code admits of but one course of conduct; borrowing the tactics of the goats against the wolf, they close in shoulder to shoulder and present to the audacious intruder an unbroken and formidable front of horns.

And it is the last place left in all America where decent poverty is in nowise penalized.  You can be poor pleasantly—­a much rarer and far finer art than being old gracefully.  Because of this, life in South Carolina sometimes retains a simplicity as fine and sincere as it is charming.

I deplore the necessity, but I will be pardoned if I pause here to become somewhat personal, to explain who and what I am and how I came to be a pastor in Appleboro.  To explain myself, then, I shall have to go back to a spring morning long ago, when I was not a poor parish priest, no, nor ever dreamed of becoming one, but was young Armand De Rance, a flower-crowned and singing pagan, holding up to the morning sun the chalice of spring; joyous because I was of a perishable beauty, dazzled because life gave me so much, proud of an old and honored name, secure in ancestral wealth, loving laughter so much that I looked with the raised eyebrow and the twisted lip at austerities and prayers.

If ever I reflected at all, it was to consider that I had nothing to pray for, save that things might ever remain as they were:  that I should remain me, myself, young Armand De Rance, loving and above all beloved of that one sweet girl whom I loved with all my heart.  Young, wealthy, strong, beautiful, loving, and beloved!  To hold all that, crowded into the hollow of one boyish hand!  Oh, it was too much!

I do not think I had ever felt my own happiness so exquisitely as I did upon that day which was to see the last of it.  I was to go a-Maying with her who had ever been as my own soul, since we were children playing together.  So I rode off to her home, an old house set in its walled inclosure by the river.  At the door somebody met me, calling me by my name.  I thought at first it had been a stranger.  It was her mother.  And while I stood staring at her changed face she took me by the hand and began to whisper in my ear ... what I had to know.  Blindly, like one bludgeoned on the head, I followed her into a darkened room, and saw what lay there with closed eyes and hair still wet from the river into which my girl had cast herself.