“There isn’t,” said Anne promptly.
“Ah, well, I heard another bride say that once,” sighed Miss Cornelia. “Jennie Dean thought when she married that there wasn’t anybody like her husband in the world. And she was right—there wasn’t! And a good thing, too, believe me! He led her an awful life—and he was courting his second wife while Jennie was dying.
Wasn’t that like a man? However, I hope your confidence will be better justified, dearie. The young doctor is taking real well. I was afraid at first he mightn’t, for folks hereabouts have always thought old Doctor Dave the only doctor in the world. Doctor Dave hadn’t much tact, to be sure—he was always talking of ropes in houses where someone had hanged himself. But folks forgot their hurt feelings when they had a pain in their stomachs. If he’d been a minister instead of a doctor they’d never have forgiven him. Soul-ache doesn’t worry folks near as much as stomach-ache. Seeing as we’re both Presbyterians and no Methodists around, will you tell me your candid opinion of our minister?”
“Why—really—I—well,” hesitated Anne.
Miss Cornelia nodded.
“Exactly. I agree with you, dearie. We made a mistake when we called him. His face just looks like one of those long, narrow stones in the graveyard, doesn’t it? ‘Sacred to the memory’ ought to be written on his forehead. I shall never forget the first sermon he preached after he came. It was on the sub-
