Luther gets up with the sun and goes to bed with it. Some in
our valley think his heavy crops come from his six days of labor, and
some from his one day of preaching. He says that the one day does it
all; but he keeps on getting out with the sun on the other six. I knew
that the poor girl from Kansas must get up with the sun, too, for her
uncle was not the man to brook any dawdling. I knew, further, that
Sunday could not be a day of rest for her, for of all his people she
would have to listen to his preaching.
That was why I murmured in a commiserative tone, "Luther's niece--poor
girl!"
"You needn't pity her," Tim snapped. "She knows a heap more about the
world than you or I do. She--"
"She is not a Dunkard, then?" I interrupted.
"Not a bit," Tim answered. "I don't know what she was in Kansas, but
Luther has preached so much on worldliness and the vanity of fine
clothes that it wouldn't look right for his niece to go flaunting
frills and furbelows about the valley. That plain gray gown is a
concession to the old man.
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