Paul Ralston by Mary Jane Holmes

One morning about a week later as Elithe was sweeping the door steps she saw an ox-cart coming up the street. Beside it was Bill Stokes flourishing his whip and calling loudly to the oxen, as if to attract her attention. Half sitting, half reclining in the cart was Mr. Pennington, pale and thin and looking about him with a good deal of curiosity and interest. The moment he caught sight of Elithe his face brightened, and, taking off his hat, he bowed and kept it off, as if in the presence of royalty, until the house was passed. As the Rectory stood a little back from the street Elithe did not speak to him or Stokes, but stood watching the cart until it stopped in front of the hotel, which the miners always called the _tavern_, and whose sign, a big board nailed across a post, bore the ambitious name, "The Samona," in imitation of larger places. Mr. Pennington was evidently expected, for the landlord and bartender came out to meet him, and Elithe noticed that he walked rather feebly as he entered the house. In the course of half an hour, Stokes, having disposed of his passenger and oxen and refreshed his inner man with a glass of beer, appeared at the door of the kitchen, where Elithe was washing the breakfast dishes. Sitting down on the step and wiping his face with his handkerchief, he began: "Wall, how's all the folks? Is the parson to home?"

The _parson_ answered for himself, as he entered the room, followed by his wife, who, as was her habit, sank into the nearest chair.