Peter Dustin stood beside his mother, his horrified eyes on the little
toil-worn hand that was curled about the stem of a beer glass. He
wanted to snatch that glass away, wanted to shout to her not to touch
the stuff. But his throat was closed and he was conscious only of the
fact that somewhere down inside of the anguish that filled him
something was praying for help, something was begging God to keep the
little, blue-eyed mother stainless and sweet and unharmed.
Joe's boys were not beside their father. They were at the other end of
the counter staring, just staring, unconscious of everything, hearing
only that strange new laugh of their father's and noticing what no one
else except Mrs. Dustin saw--that Joe's hand as he raised his glass
shook wretchedly.
And then, before any of them could bring their glasses to their lips,
the thing the anguished soul of Peter Dustin had been praying for
happened. The door opened and within its frame stood the big handsome
figure of Green Valley's new minister.
One glance of his took in the scene and the smile he wore never changed
nor did an eyelash so much as quiver even after the blue eyes of
Peter's mother had flashed their message.
"Well--I've come to invite folks to my party and I find a party going
on.
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