Eben Bell came in with an armful of wood and banged it cheerfully down in the box behind the glowing Waterloo stove, which was coloring the heart of the little kitchen’s gloom with tremulous, rose-red whirls of light.
“There, sis, that’s the last chore on my list. Bob’s milking. Nothing more for me to do but put on my white collar for meeting. Avonlea is more than lively since the evangelist came, ain’t it, though!”
Mollie Bell nodded. She was curling her hair before the tiny mirror that hung on the whitewashed wall and distorted her round, pink-and-white face into a grotesque caricature.
“Wonder who’ll stand up to-night,” said Eben reflectively, sitting down on the edge of the wood-box. “There ain’t many sinners left in Avonlea — only a few hardened chaps like myself.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” said Mollie rebukingly. “What if father heard you?”
“Father wouldn’t hear me if I shouted it in his ear,” returned Eben. “He goes around, these days,
