The next morning his wife was more pleasant, and even talkative--
talkative, that is to say, for her. Something had struck her.
"My dear," quoth she, as they sat at breakfast, "what a pity it is
that the Major is not a converted character!"
Zachariah could not but think so too.
"I have been wondering if we could get him to attend our chapel. Who
knows?--some word might go to his heart which might be as the seed
sown on good ground."
"Have you tried to convert him yourself?"
"Oh no, Zachariah! I don't think that would be quite proper."
She screwed up her lips a little, and then, looking down at her knees
very demurely, smoothed her apron.
"Why not, my dear? Surely it is our duty to testify to the belief
that is in us. Poor Christiana, left alone, says, as you will
remember, 'O neighbour, knew you but as much as I do, I doubt not but
that you would go with me.'"
"Ah, yes, that was all very well then." She again smoothed her
apron. "Besides, you know," she added suddenly, "there were no
public means of grace in the City of Destruction. Have YOU said
anything to the Major?"
"No."
She did not push her advantage, and the unpleasant fact again stood
before Zachariah's eyes, as it had stood a hundred times before them
lately, that when he had been with sinners he had been just what they
were, barring the use of profane language.
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