There might very easily have been a third, for they said the first bullet which Leonard fired must have come within an inch of Jonathan Flint's head. I should have supposed such an escape must have softened even him. I thought it was a good time to impress the lesson, so I pointed to the bullet buried in the wall.
"Mr. Flint," said I, "can you look at that and not believe in Providence?"
Instead of being convinced, as I thought he would, he only pointed to Leonard's body lying under it and said nothing.
I hate these people who are given to expressive silences. It takes one at a disadvantage. Silence is the only argument to which there is no answer. At the time I could not think of anything to say to him, though, since I got home, I've thought of ever so many. It is easier to think, I find, in Oldburyport.
Except for the last terrible days I had a beautiful time in the city, and as I look over my diary I am quite overwhelmed to see how many things Winifred did for me. She is a dear girl! I have promised to embroider all the table linen for her wedding outfit. I console myself by reflecting that Mr. Flint is a descendant of Jonathan Edwards, and if she wants me to like him, I suppose I must try, though I may confess right here to my diary that for years I have been wanting her to marry Philip Brady. She ought to have done it, but we are all fools where matrimony is concerned.
P. S. I have promised to marry Dr. Cricket.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Flint, by Maud Wilder Goodwin