They found a note saying they would never again see
her alive. Her mother says she went toward the river."
I touched up the mare. For a few minutes the Scotch Preacher sat silent,
thinking. Then he said, with a peculiar tone of kindness in his voice.
"She was a child, just a child. When I talked with her yesterday she
was perfectly docile and apparently contented. I cannot imagine her
driven to such a deed of desperation. I asked her: 'Why did you do it,
Anna?' She answered, 'I don't know: I--I don't know!' Her reply was not
defiant or remorseful: it was merely explanatory."
He remained silent again for a long time.
"David," he said finally, "I sometimes think we don't know half as much
about human nature as we--we preach. If we did, I think we'd be more
careful in our judgments."
He said it slowly, tentatively: I knew it came straight from his heart.
It was this spirit, more than the title he bore, far more than the
sermons he preached, that made him in reality the minister of our
community. He went about thinking that, after all, he didn't know much,
and that therefore he must be kind.
As I drove up to the bridge, the Scotch Preacher put one hand on the
reins. I stopped the horse on the embankment and we both stepped out.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61