 1 I have given thee a wise and an understanding heart. She stood with head bent a little on one side, and a look of pleased eagerness on her face surveying her handiwork. It was a beautiful room, a green and mossy carpet on the floor, a green tint to the paper on the wall, green borders to the white linen shades, heavy walnut furniture, cushioned in green, two dainty sofas in corresponding corners, another corner occupied with one of those delightful arrangements whose delightful name suggests its pleasant use, a what not. I do wonder who originated that name. This species of it was beautiful to look upon, its carving was delicate and graceful as became its belongings, charming little books rose of them in green and gold, and on the upper shelves lovely sea tinted shells, a moss basket with a fern in the center and dainty vines trailing over the edges, a photograph in a shell frame of a fair-faced kneeling child, another in a frame of purple velvet of that wonderful face and figure clinging to the rock of ages, delicate white vases holding sprays of sweet smelling flowers, rare little bits of art and skill and taste scattered endlessly among the larger treasures, and oh what not. Filling one entire end of the room was a handsome bookcase, with massive doors of plate glass, some books therein, but much space left vacant for the fortunate owner of beloved books. The walls were hung with choice pictures, with here and there an illuminated text of rare beauty and strength. On the wide window seat a potted rose was blooming, a sweet-centered geranium by its side helped to perfume the air. An open door revealed an inner room, as perfect in its way as the other. A chamber set of rich and graceful pattern, the smooth white bed smiling on you, from the puffy frilled pillow covers to the glowing fuchsias painted on the foot scroll, and beyond still just a glimpse of bathroom and dressing room fragrant with various soaps and prodigal of mirrors and towels. Certainly everything was complete. Mrs. Sayles lifted a vase of geraniums and pansies from one of the little tables and set it on the window seat. Then after a little went for it and brought it back again to the table. The effect was better. Clearly there was nothing left to do. She had exhausted her skill and taste. Abby, called a clear ringing voice, and the owner of it had one foot on the stair below and stood looking up. Mrs. Sayles at once responded, Yes, come up, Julia, and see the rooms. And Mrs. Dr. Douglas ran swiftly upstairs and joined her cousin. You have heard nothing about her, at least since her sister Esther died, except from her own pen, when she was Julia Reed. So I may as well tell you that she is a handsome woman, well-dressed and well-appearing, with more dignity than you have an idea of her possessing, and yet with a dash of the impetuosity of manner that characterized her girlhood. She spoke in the same brisk, rapid tone that she was want to use. How perfectly delightful you have made them! Abby, what is this? Oh, I see a wildwood vine! Isn't it lovely? Oh, how pleasant it is! I should like to be the new minister myself and come and board with you for the sake of these rooms. Do you suppose they will like them? Like them, unless they are barbarians they will be enchanted. Where is Jerome? The doctor has been ready for him this half hour. I don't know, he had some business to attend to, but he said he should certainly be in time for the train. Why, it is not train time yet, is it? Oh, no, only Jerome is always more than prompt. Sit down a minute, Abby, you look tired. These chairs haven't become ministerial yet. I'll try one, and Mrs. Douglas sank into one of the great green chairs while Abby took an ottoman just in front. It's a queer world, Mrs. Douglas continued, pursuing a loud her train of thought. Just to think of you, Abby Reed, in your own house, getting rooms ready for the new minister and his wife, and I, Julia Reed, leaving my multitudinous cares to come up here and gossip with you about it. That last, though, is natural enough. You have left out a most important part, Mrs. Sales said, laughing, namely that you are not Julia Reed and I am not Abby Reed, but we are both staid and dignified married women. I have a realizing sense of that fact, at least I realize the doctor. But about this new minister's wife, Abby, are you going to like her? I mean to, Mrs. Sales said, setting her lips with a resolute little air that reminded one of Abby Reed. Let us begin right, Julia, and like her anyway. If her husband has chosen her from all other women, she must be a suitable wife for him. Doesn't follow, answered Mrs. Douglas promptly. For instance, the doctor chose me. Well, said Mrs. Sales brightly, granted that that was a singular blunder. Mr. Douglas is different from most other men, you know, in a great many respects. Generally they make very good selections. And do you know I want so much to like this woman to find a helper in her spiritually? I want to do so much for her comfort and pleasure, and I don't know how to commence. You'll discover I haven't the least doubt. But don't your heart ache for just a five minutes talk with Mrs. Malford? Mrs. Sales turned herself around from her sideways position and looked at her cousin fully and earnestly. Julia, don't, I beg of you, whisper such a sentence in this room. I'm afraid it will hide among the curtains there somewhere and come out to haunt them. And if there is anything that does seem horrible to me, it is when anybody and his wife are trying to do the very best that they can to have somebody politely and solemnly fling Mr. and Mrs. or Miss somebody else at them who are patterns of excellence. I know, assented Mrs. Douglas cordially, Frank was discoursing on that very theme last evening. She was telling the doctor that if she were a minister, she would hope that her predecessor had been an excellent man that the people had loved him to distraction and that he had died and gone to heaven, in which case she wouldn't expect to hear very much about him. But to receive a $6,000 call to Boston, as Dr. Mulford has done, was so much more important to matter than going to heaven that she heartily pitied our new minister and his wife. I consoled her, however, continued Mrs. Douglas, by assuring her that Mrs. Martin would be the only one who would be likely to wring the changes very extensively on Dr. Mulford's name and the newcomers could keep out of her way until she had a new idea. Mrs. Martin, repeated Mrs. Sayles in a laughing astonishment, why in the world should she trouble her brains over Dr. Mulford? Isn't your knowledge of human nature deep enough to comprehend that fact? Didn't Mrs. Martin cordially dislike him, and didn't she give him more trouble than all the rest of the people put together? And aren't they the very persons who always have the most to say about our beloved former pastor? What an idea, said Mrs. Sayles, still laughing, and Mrs. Douglas added emphatically, you see if it isn't just as I say. I have heard such people talk before. It is my bounden duty to go home. Where is baby Essie? In the nursery, and Julia, said Mrs. Sayles, rising to follow her flying visitor into the hall, I think she is asleep. I told the doctor how you awakened her out of a sound sleep, and he said you must not do it. I am not afraid of the doctor, Mrs. Douglas answered, looking back with a little defiant laugh. But I won't awaken her this morning, because I really am in too much haste. Mrs. Sayles went back to her fair bright rooms to take one last peep at them. There really didn't seem to be anything else that she could do for them to evince her love and respect for the occupants. Yes, one thing more. She closed the hall door quietly, turned the key in the lock, then going over to the study chair she sank on her knees before it. And if that coming pastor could have heard the earnest, simple, trustful prayer that went up to God for him and his, I think he must have been strengthened in his resolves and efforts. It was, in a sense, a dedication of these newly prepared rooms to their new use. The heart of Mrs. Sayles evidently retained in all its freshness and simplicity the singularly childlike earnest faith that had characterized Abbey Rhee. Mealing there, she entered into solemn covenant with her Saviour to watch her life and her words and her heart to see that in no way did she interfere with the usefulness and happiness of her pastor and his wife to see that in all things she proved a help and not a stumbling block. She prayed that his work among them might be blessed to the church and to his own soul, that he might be constantly upheld by the strong arm, that his armor might be sufficient to shield him from the darts that would be flung at him here and there. In short, she tried to envelop him and themselves in an atmosphere of prayer and faith. She prayed to God for the earnest childlike Christians, who, when they kneel to pray, carry their undershepherds by faith to the very footstool of the throne and bring every thought that they have concerning them and their work to the solemn test of prayer. Only God knows how much of the success of certain great and eminent ministers of the gospel is due to those humble, unknown closet workers. It was when the hostess was in the kitchen, seeing to it that the preparations for dinner were going steadily and expressly forward, that the stopping of a carriage before the door, a rattle of trunks upon the pavement, a bustle in the hall, and the cheery voice of her husband, calling her name, announced the arrival of the travelers a few minutes earlier than they were expected. She waited only to unfasten her large apron, rub a little streak of flour from her cheek, and then ran hastily up, a bright glad light of welcome in her eyes, and gave most hearty and cordial reception to her new pastor. Then turned to take her first look at the small fair creature at his side, as he said, and now, Mrs. Sales, let me make you acquainted with Mrs. Tresivant. CHAPTER II And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool? After Tresivant sat in his pleasant study, sermon in hand, reading it over preparatory to preaching it in his own church, his first sermon to that people since he became their pastor. The day was perfect, a June Sabbath, in all the freshness and sweet-scentedness and sonniness that June can sometimes array herself in. In the next room Mrs. Tresivant could be heard stepping quietly about, humming now and then a scrap of melody, stopping in the middle of a word as if in perplexity. In truth she was. On this most pure and quiet of Sabbath mornings she was occupied with the old bewildering question, wherewithal shall I be clothed? Presently she pushed open the separating door and sought counsel. Carol, what shall I wear today? Mr. Tresivant did not glance up from his manuscript, did not take his thoughts entirely away from his sermon, but there floated dreamily before him the vision of a fair and graceful form clad in white lawn with little touches of sky blue set here and there. He could not tell where or how, only he knew the dress impressed him as eminently fit and proper. This vision did not take name. He was too busy with his sermon to inquire whence it came, but he answered his wife in a dreamy way. Oh, something simple! A low, soft laugh gurgled up from Mrs. Tresivant's throat. I believe that is the sum and substance of your knowledge and taste on the subject, she said good-humoredly. Don't you like now to have me wear a white dress with pink ribbons? I should think it might be very pretty, the minister answered, continuing the last word into the next sentence of his sermon, thereby making a strange mixture. There, triumphantly from Mrs. Minister, I thought as much. Now I would have you know, you stupid creature, that people of taste and sense don't wear white to church, unless indeed they are in the country, and even then I hardly consider it admissible. When there floated that vision of white lawn, or whatever the material might have been, gingham for odd he knew, but white certainly pure and spotless white. Was that inadmissible? To be sure, Lewiston was much more country than Newton. But then she looked so very, here the minister stopped abruptly and gave close attention to his sermon. He began to be dimly conscious who the vision was. Mrs. Tresivant waited a reasonable length of time for a reply to her last sentence and, receding nothing more definite than a line or two of sermon, drew the door, too, with a suddenness that betokened a slight touch of impatience, and returned to silent meditation before the bed. That bed was a wonder to behold. The white spread had entirely disappeared beneath the mound of billowy silk. No wonder the fair owner thereof was puzzled. There was a suit of dazzling, heavenly blue, trimmed, skirt over skirt-bask flounce, with rose upon rose of amazing white lace. There was a suit of the most delicate lavender made brilliant and startling with its contrasted trimmings of blue. There was a suit of summer silk of that rare and delicate tint and stripe that suggests a faint neutral apology for the otherwise almost white shining mass. This, too, was made absolutely wonderful with the amount and bewilderment of flounce and puff and plate. Now in which of all these elegant rustles to appear in her first Sabbath at Newton was the solemn and important question that was weighing on the heart of the wife of the pastor-elect of the Regent Street Church. Clear and sweet sounded out the tones of the Sabbath bell, heated by the minister in his study, who drew forth his watch with a startled air, and, mindful of sundry experiences in the past, sounded out his warning, Laura, you will be late. Well, pushing open the door an inch or two, if I am it will be your own fault, you wouldn't tell me what to wear. My dear, what does it matter, wear anything? Oh, yes, that is what you always say, what does it matter? It may not matter in the least to you, but I want to make a respectable appearance for my own sake, if not for yours. The door slammed just a little this time, and Mrs. Tresivant gave undivided attention to her gold-colored hair. It all ended in Mr. Tresivant hunting hurriedly and nervously for his list of hymns at the last minute, in his wife rushing forward to say, I do wish, Carol, you would leave that stupid sermon long enough to button my glove, in a desperate wrench at the troublesome buttons, which, with the perversity of their race, persisted in turning over and slipping under, and doing everything but allowing themselves to be placed in the hole made on purpose for them, in the final triumph of one of the wretches that flew off to the floor and rolled under the table. In Mrs. Tresivant, very red and indignant, insisting on waiting to change her gloves, utterly scoffing at her husband's idea that three buttons on a glove were too much anyway. In Mr. Sales below stairs, standing like a solemn sentinel of doom, rattling the door handle, while his wife stood quietly by, waiting patiently, in a going back twice when they were halfway down the length of the hall, once for a handkerchief and once for the all-important sermon, while the bell told on exasperatingly, finally in a frantic rush downstairs, a breathless gallop to church, and a brisk trot down the aisle carrying fleshed and disturbed faces, while the eyes of the assembled congregation looked them through. The pastor's pew in the Regent Street Church in Newton was the same that it was years before, but the row of little mulfards who were want to look up from it to their father's face was gone. No green velvet bonnet in winter, nor one a trifle the worse for wear in summer, would trouble the eyes of the fastidious in these matters for some time to come. The rustling blue silk that had finally won the day in the conflict on the bed, spread its bright white-capped waves on either side until you felt glad that there was no one else to occupy that pew. The bonnet was such a marvel of lace and ribbon, and rare and costly flowers, as none but a professional milliner would undertake to describe. In fact, little Mrs. Laura Trecevant on that fair June day would have done very well for an exquisite fashion plate to grace the first page of a superior fashion magazine. Who had the better right than she to all these elegant trifles? Was she not the only daughter of Esquire Burton, who was worth fifty thousand dollars? To be sure, she was unaware that the meek-faced little Mrs. Sales, sitting in the next pew but one clad in her modest suit of steely gray poplin, was the only daughter of Mr. Ralph Reed of New York City, whose real estate was worth five hundred thousand dollars, nor yet that Mrs. Alec Tyndall, in the pew exactly behind hers, sat beside a husband who actually counted his wealth by millions. Nobody certainly could have imagined their different positions from the attire of these three ladies, so Mrs. Trecevant remained in blissful ignorance of the same and buttoned her lemon-colored kids complacently while the organ rolled its voluntary through the church. It was a good organ and well played, exceedingly well played. Newtonians thought and expected their pastor to take pride in the same, but he, truth to tell, had been accustomed for a long time to the skill and touch of Del Bronson, and she was counted a fine player, even in Boston, so the beauty of the music did not overwhelm him as the organist intended it should. Music and prayer and preliminary Bible reading being concluded, the clergyman announced his text. Of course you know what it was, that oft-repeated sentence so dear to the heart of every young minister, so unhesitatingly selected by them as the most appropriate of all texts for them to use for the first time in a new field. This while they were young. As the years go by the sermon is less often preached, and when preached at all, is first read over thoughtfully with many unconscious pause as to whether he is sure enough of his own heart to boldly make such and such an assertion. There will be an erasure here and there, and many interlinings until the sermon of which he was once so proud looks like a piece of patchwork, and finally there comes a day when, after a more thoughtful reading than usual, the earnest pastor takes a loving look at that which was once so dear, and opens the stove door and chucks it in, remarking with a bit of a sigh as he watches it blaze up like pine shavings, I know my own heart too well to preach that sermon any more. No such experiences had as yet come to Mr. Tresavant. He announced his text in a clear and confident tone, for I determined not to know anything among you saved Jesus Christ and him crucified. After the fashion of the aforesaid young ministers, he ignored the fact that this was part of St. Paul's letter to the church at Corinth after much of his blessed work among them had been accomplished, not on the occasion of his first coming among them. After said he anything of St. Paul's preceding sentence, and I, brethren, when I came to you, came not with excellency of speech or of wisdom, and not a whisper of the sentence following his text, and I was with you in weakness and in fear and in much trembling. They would not have been appropriate to the occasion. Well he certainly had a right to select the text he did as the exponent of the determination at which he arrived in coming among them, if only it had been true, if such had been his solemn, fixed, conscientious determination. If he had come that morning from his closet to his pulpit, thrilled, permeated with the longing to know nothing among them saved Jesus Christ and him crucified, what a baptism might have descended from the crucified one upon that waiting pastor and people. But he had not done any such thing. Ah! You not think I'm a hypocrite, a wolf in sheep's clothing. Worse than that, in shepherd's clothing, you are ready to shake your heads and cry, a minister of all persons to be playing the hypocrite. I thought he was some such person all the while. And you sigh and look solemn, and some of you away down in your secret hearts are actually pleased to discover that Satan has secured so prominent a victim. Bless you, he was nothing of the sort. He was only like ever so many of you, a poor, lame, halting Christian. Let me tell you in a few words what manner of man he was. If he had manufactured a text out of his heart to express an inmost truth and preached a truthful sermon that morning, the text would have been, for I determined not to know anything among you save myself first, last, and always. Not that he realized this truth, oh no, if he had he would have been startled, shocked, and saved. If he had but known that he had lifted up his own exaggerated shadow between the cross and himself and was worshiping that, he would have it once said about tearing it down. He was sincere. He thought he meant every word of that elaborately prepared sermon that he read to his people in impressive tones. He would not have written a word of it had he imagined it to be false. He would not have prayed over it, as he had that very morning, if he had not believed that it was the utterance of his heart. But he did not realize that while he wrote, instead of thrilling to his very fingertips with the solemnity of the sentence written, he felt in his heart that that last was a very telling way of putting it. And he did not seem to know that while he prayed for the baptism of the Holy Spirit, his brain was busy conning over some of the phrases of that sermon which were especially important. Mr. Tresavant was not a disgustingly bombastic man. If he had been, I think he had so much sense that he would have disgusted himself and so been saved. He was simply a man with a proud heart, a man having one of those natures seemingly contradictory, desirous of pleasing, nervously sensitive on the subject, so sensitive that he was sometimes willing to yield just a shade of right for the sake of pleasing, yet so nervously conscious of his own identity that he was never willing to yield an expressed opinion, even though he regretted in the next five minutes that any opinion had been expressed. You will see, as you come to know him better, how strangely this central idea of his prepped in everywhere, twisting and warping and marring his life. As the congregation passed down the aisle after the service was concluded, Mrs. Sales passed Dr. Douglas, standing quite near the door, with a thoughtful, almost troubled look on his face. What do you think, he asked her suddenly, and with a touch of almost anxiety in his voice. Fry determined not to know anything saved Jesus Christ and him crucified, she answered, smiling. That is what I think. That is what I am determined on reaching after. His face cleared instantly. Thank you, he said heartily. We can try for that. It had not touched me in that way. Thank you. CHAPTER III Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools. Dr. Douglas stirred his tea mechanically, broke his muffin into bits, but ate nothing, said nothing, only looked sadly perplexed and disturbed. His wife waited in inquiring silence for several minutes, then asked, What is it, doctor? Anything new? How did you leave poor little Freddie? No better. They sent here and over to Franks for Mr. Tresavant. Do you know whether they found him? I found him. Where? Has he been over there? They seemed very anxious. Mrs. Douglas always asked at least two questions at once, realizing perhaps how pressed her husband was for time. No, he has not been there. I found him in the Wilcox Browns playing croquet with Mrs. Tresavant and the young ladies. Silence for a moment, then Mrs. Douglas said with belligerent air. Well, what special harm is there in playing croquet? The doctor was betrayed out of his gloom long enough to laugh and take a bite of muffin before he answered. I don't say a word against croquet, Julia. Is your conscience very tender on that point? Mrs. Douglas responded only by a conscious laugh as she realized how entirely she had betrayed her opinions on the subject and continued her questioning. Did you tell him about Freddie and how much they wanted to see him? I did, relaxing into gloom and laconic answers. What did he say? Mrs. Douglas was entirely accustomed to cross-questioning her husband and understood the process thoroughly. That he would go down there as soon as the game of croquet was concluded. The lady opposite him set down her cup that had nearly reached her lips and looked at her husband while an expression of mingled doubt and dismay spread over her face. Dr. Douglas, did you tell him the child was dying and that they had been in search of him? She said in shocked tones. I explained the latter fact to him elaborately and told him the boy was very sick and that I feared he might not live until morning. For once the ever-ready tongue opposite seemed to have not a word to utter. When she found voice again it was to ask in a very subdued way. Do they know it at the house? Know that you have found him, I mean? What do they think of it? They know that I found him and where, for they asked me both questions. I did not enlighten them as to his occupation and said what I hoped and believed was true that I thought he would be along very soon. But he had not arrived when I came away a quarter of an hour ago. The game must have proved a complicated one. Now the question is, was Mr. Trecevon's heart so bound up in the game of croquet that he could not even leave it to answer a summons from the dying? On the contrary he cared as little for croquet as it was possible for any mortal man to care for so stupid a thing. The difficulty came to pass on this wise. Three hours before this tea-table talk Mrs. Trecevon, in a ravishing sea-green silk, sat doubled up in an ill-humored heap among the sofa-pillows while her exasperating husband walked the floor with his hands in his pockets, a thing which husbands generally proceed to doing when they wish to be especially tormenting. He talked to the little roll of silk after this fashion. I am more than doubtful as to the propriety of joining this croquet party. The small wife twitched her skein of green worsted into a hopeless snarl and answered petulently. Has croquet become a mortal sin? Dear me, I don't know what is to become of common humanity. There is positively nothing left that isn't wicked to do. I didn't say croquet was wicked, Laura. Don't be so childish. What is the matter with it then? I'm sure you said you were doubtful as to its propriety. Carol, I am absolutely sick of that word. I don't wonder that so many clergymen lose their wives early. They die of propriety. What possible objection to croquet can you find? I don't object to it. It is a good enough game, I suppose, but there are people who don't think so. There is an old man downtown, a member of my church, too, who thinks it is only another way of playing billiards. And there are doubtless others, just as stupid, who wouldn't like to see their pastor engaged in any such frivolous way. So for the sake of that class of people, I doubt the wisdom of joining you. The blue-brown eyes on the sofa so soft and childlike they were that once Mr. Tressavant thought the owner of them could be led by a word, looked upon him now enlarged to their full extent, and her voice took on a tinge of resignation. Oh, well, if you are to be governed by every old man the chances to think some absurd and ignorant thing, of course that is the end of all freedom and comfort. Only I did think that even clergymen had a right to decide for themselves in some matters. I am governed by no one, Laura, said the self-besieged clergymen, chafing under the idea that he was in leading strings. I choose to decide all questions for myself, without the interference of anyone. Only, of course, there are questions of expediency to be considered, and I may not choose to place myself in an unpleasant light before any of my people. He continued his walk up and down the room with a very perturbed face, anything but to have it hinted that he, of all men, was not master of his own actions. And there sat that tiny woman, very wise in her generation, and presently let fly the arrow that she knew would hit him at his most vulnerable point. I think it must be that Mrs. Sales has enlightened you as to her views on the subject. She has views about it, of course. She has about every earthly thing that can be imagined, and she evidently intends that you shall be led like a dutiful subject in the way she would have you go. You used to play croquet with Emmeline and me in Lewiston, and I never heard a word about propriety and expediency before, so it is evident she has been giving you directions on the subject. Mr. Tresivant paused in front of his wife, and his voice was actually harsh. Laura, how can you be so absurd? What possible connection can Mrs. Sales' notions on any subject whatever and my actions have with each other? A great deal, shutting her red lips together with an emphasis that made them thin and unpretty. I tell you she means that you shall do as she says and thinks, like a good boy, as she imagines you to be. As for having views of your own, she never dreams of such a thing. That is too ridiculous to listen to, answered the irate clergyman, turning testily away and recommending his walk, the little wife meantime subsiding into silence and quietly awaiting results. Some minutes of steady walking, accompanied by furtive glances from the blue-brown eyes on the sofa, then he halted before her again, this time speaking kindly. Laura, I did not know that your heart was so set on this frolic. It is a matter of very small importance, anyway. Of course we will go, if you really wish it. Then the waves of green silk shook themselves triumphantly from the sofa pillows, and Mrs. Trecevon's low, sweet voice said, Oh, thank you, Carol, I do want to go. It will seem so much like home. Thus it was that the clergyman, being hunted for at every possible place, was finally aspired by Dr. Douglas as he came hurriedly down Chester Street in the Wilcox grounds with the croquet party. Mrs. Charlotte Wilcox gave a pretended scream as she saw him coming. Oh, Mr. Trecevon, where can we hide you? Here comes Dr. Douglas, and he will never recover from his horror if he sees you here. Why, laughed Mrs. Trecevon, does he think croquet is wicked? I guess so. I never heard him mention that in particular, but he thinks almost everything is. And at this point Dr. Douglas summoned his pastor to the gate. The game was suspended, and the players gave attention to the conversation at the gate which was by no means low toned. That little Freddie Conklin, explained Miss Charlotte in undertone, has been sick for months, and every little while they get dreadfully alarmed about him and think he is going to die right away. The tone was not so low, but that it reached Mr. Trecevon's ear. The boy is no worse than he was before, I presume, he asked inquiringly to the doctor. I cannot speak positively, of course, Dr. Douglas answered somewhat stiffly. The disease is peculiar, but he seems to be very near death. I do not think he will live until morning. Oh dear, sighed Miss Charlotte, it is all a ruse, I believe, to get your husband out of our wicked hands. Mrs. Trecevon, I do wish you would coax him to stay until I can beat him just once. I've almost done it. Again, the clear shrill tones penetrated to Mr. Trecevon's ear, and the man who was just opening his mouth to say, I will come with you at once, checked himself, took in angrily the thought that Dr. Douglas was trying to manage him, decided that he would not be managed, no, not by anybody, and finally said with an assumption of utter nonchalance, very well, doctor, I will be around there in the course of the afternoon, you will not do to desert the ladies just now, they might imagine themselves victors in the game. Then the doctor, who was given to showing just a little too much feeling on such occasions, turned away haughtily without another word, and the minister returned to his croquet with a very troubled spirit and wished in his heart that every exasperating little yellow and green and red ball was split up for kindling wood. He played badly, his mind, meantime, being occupied with two questions. First was the boy really so very ill, or was this one of the many false alarms that had come from the anxious parents? True, the doctor had said that he might not live till morning. Well, of course, he might not, they might none of them. Could it be that the doctor, not liking his position and occupation, have contrived a plan to get him away from there? And over this thought his pale cheek flushed, and he struck the red ball fiercely, muttering to himself that if he really thought that, he would play croquet until midnight much as he hated it. The consequence of all this was that it was an hour after Dr. Douglas had finished his supper and was coming downstairs from the sick boy's room that he met his pastor going up. How is he now, Mr. Tresivant asked, with an attempt at cheeriness? Beyond your care or mine, the doctor answered with grave stern face. Not dead. Yes, sir, he died half an hour ago, and Dr. Douglas moved swiftly on. I was never so shocked in my life, Mr. Tresivant explained at the sales-t table a few minutes later. I did not dream of the boy's condition being so critical. There have been so many reports, you know, of his being about to die, I thought it was another of his sinking turns. I am very much grieved. After all, you couldn't have saved the poor child's life if you had been there, his sympathizing wife said, by way of consolation, nibbling a biscuit as she spoke. What do they say of Mr. Tresivant's non-appearance? Mrs. Sales asked this question of Dr. Douglas an hour later as he stood in the doorway, hat in hand, having made some arrangements with Mrs. Sales that had to do with the comfort of the afflicted family. They are very much hurt, of course. They cannot be blamed for that. Did you make any explanation, doctor? Dr. Douglas turned around and gave her a full view of his stern gray eyes as he asked in a stern voice. What explanation was there to make, Abby? Her pastor was playing croquet and did not choose to come until he finished his game, and the boy was too near heaven to wait until that momentous business was concluded. Now that is the simple truth. I saw nothing to explain. Only a few minutes after that Mrs. Sales went quietly down the street and stood presently in the Chamber of Death. Very few words she had to offer, yet her tender sympathy seemed to enter into and soften the bleeding hearts. It was when she was turning to lead the room that she said, simply and gently, I am sorry for Mr. Tressavant. The blood rolled in rich waves over the stricken mother's face, and she quickly answered, Don't mention his name to me. I don't want to hear it. Neither by word or look did the softly-spoken little woman notice this remark, but continued her words very gently. He feels it very deeply, as of course he would. He hadn't an idea of the serious nature of the disease. He said he had never in his life been so shocked and grieved. But we sent for him, the mother said coldly with averted eyes, sent twice for him, and he was at Wilcox's playing croquet. Charlie saw him when he went for Dr. Douglas. He could have come if he had cared to. I know, but you see, he didn't understand. I think he took it as an intimation that you would like to see him some time during the day. He certainly did not take in the serious nature of the call. This time the mother sobbed out her reply amid burning tears. But Freddie wanted to see him again. He loved his pastor, and mourned so because he did not come. And we had to see him die with his wish ungratified. Yes, very gently, and Mr. Trussevant loved him. He has often spoken of him. And Freddie is very happy now, has no wish ungratified. But his pastor carries a very heavy heart. I am sorry for him. No more words about that. They went out together to the sitting-room, and Mrs. Sales moved about for a little, very quietly and helpfully, until, just as she was about to leave them, she asked quietly, Have you any direction or message that you would like me to give to Mr. Trussevant? The bowed head of the father was lifted, and he made stern answer. We have no further message of any kind for him. He has no time to attend to us. I shall call on Dr. Steele in the morning. His wife turned toward him hastily. Oh, Father, no, I wouldn't. Let us have our own pastor with us. But I thought, he said, in grave surprise, I thought you said you wanted it so. Well, I did, but I was hasty, I think. Don't let us do anything that looks bitter. There is some mistake about it. He would have come if he had understood, and Freddie loved him, you know. Oh, rare and precious oil poured on the troubled waters. If only the world, nay rather the Christian Church, had a few more such characters, seeking ever to throw the mantle of tender charity over faults and mistakes, soothing into littleness and quiet the minor ills of life, instead of talking them over and ripping them apart until they grow into gaping wounds, how much could be accomplished for the cause of the master, how much bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and evil speaking would be put away. CHAPTER 4 Neither make thyself over wise, why should thou destroy thyself? Are the societies well attended and interesting? This question Mr. Tressavant asked of his hostess at the dinner table. Yes, she answered, drawing out the monosyllable to unusual length and hesitating much. They are pretty well attended, that is, a good many go, but there are many who do not attend, and I think will not be persuaded to under the present circumstances. And what are present circumstances if you will enlighten me? Mr. Sales glanced down at his wife with an amused laugh. You'll mount her on one of her hobbies if you insist upon an answer to that question, he said roguishly. Oh, now, Jerome, is that quite fair? I don't think I make exactly a hobby of it, though I do feel deeply about it. I can state the case very briefly, Mr. Tressavant. We have too much flounce and finery generally in our sewing society. The custom prevails of going sufficiently dressed for a fashionable tea party, and the consequence is that a large number of ladies whose circumstances will not admit of anything very elaborate are shut out from attending or feel that they are. Why, Mrs. Sales, do you have bylaws requiring just so many flounces and ribbons and the like? It was Mrs. Tressavant's innocent childlike voice that asked this question, a voice in which there was constantly an undertone of not very amiable sarcasm. Mrs. Sales answered her quietly. Not quite that, and yet the persistency which some of our ladies carry out their fancy dress designs might lead one to imagine that there was some penalty involved. Mrs. Tressavant chose to make her next query less sharp. But don't you think it is false pride that keeps people away from places because they are not able to dress as well as others? Doubtless it is, Mrs. Sales answered meekly, but the trouble is people will persist in having false pride, and the question that puzzles me is, shall we Christians do our best to foster it or to give it as little chance for growth as possible? Mrs. Tressavant flounced herself into her room ten minutes afterward in a very unameable frame of mind. Are you aware, Mr. Tressavant, she said hotly, that the lecture on dress to which we have had the pleasure of listening was delivered for my special benefit? Nonsense, answered that gentleman, composedly be taking himself to an easy chair in the daily paper. It isn't nonsense at all. She is perpetually dictating to me what I shall wear and how I shall act. Mr. Tressavant lowered his paper and looked at his wife, the ever-ready flesh rising slowly on his cheeks. Dictating to you? Well, not in so many words, perhaps, but continually throwing out hints for me to practice on. Oh, as to that, she has a right to her own opinions, of course. Nobody wishes to hinder her from enjoying them, but the question is, haven't I a right to mine? Certainly you have. Dress exactly as you please, without regard to her or anyone else. Now, be it known that this matter of simplicity in dress was one of Mr. Tressavant's own particular hobbies, and he sometimes wrote it in such a manner as to drive his dress-loving wife to the very verge of distraction. His ideal was white, of course, what gentleman's isn't, and it must be admitted that he showed as little sense in regard to season and occasion as most of them do. Still, his tastes and his ideas of Christian propriety were decidedly in favor of quiet simplicity, which thing his small, wise wife thoroughly comprehended, and comprehending him quite as thoroughly in some other respects, played her game accordingly. She knew perfectly well that to give advice himself as to her attire and to seem to be following the hints of a third person were, in his estimation, decidedly different matters. Consequently, she made her toilet in peace. Behold her, then, some two hours later, a pattern of simplicity and propriety, arrayed in a fond-colored silk with an overdress of white muslin, immaculate in whiteness and fluted ruffles, and finished at the throat with puffings of real lace, seated in Mrs. Wilcox's back parlor, the sinister of all eyes. Meek little Mrs. Sayles, in her buff muslin, stood no chance at all beside her pastor's wife. There was a heightened color in that little lady's face. She had, on that particular afternoon, prevailed upon Mrs. John Carter to accompany her to the society. Now, Mrs. John Carter's best dress was a very neatly made blue and white cambrick, and very neat and pretty she looked. But seated on the sofa beside Mrs. Tressavant, nearly submerged by that lady's flounces and ruffles, she looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, and Mrs. Sayles greatly feared that this would be her last attempt to mingle in the society of the region's street church. There was a group of eager talkers over by the bay window. When Mrs. Sayles joined them late in the afternoon, they greeted her with a chorus of voices. Oh, Mrs. Sayles, we have an excellent plan for raising the rest of that money and having a social gathering at the same time. An old folk supper, a new idea you see. Did you ever hear of it before? Mrs. Ames says when she was east they had one in their society and it was a perfect success. An old folk supper repeated Mrs. Sayles in perplexity. What does that mean? Do old folks have such very different suppers from young ones? Indeed they do, or did, the old folks about whom we are talking. Tell her about that one in your church, Mrs. Ames. Why, you know, began that lady, prefacing her remarks with the favorite American blunder, you know, and immediately proceeding to explain what she believes her hearer to know nothing about. You know they have pumpkin pies and Indian puddings and apple sauce and baked beans and all those old fashioned dishes that were so important years ago. Then you have characters dressed to represent the olden time. We had George and Martha Washington and Lafayette and old quantities of others. They had to sustain their characters too, not only by their dress, but by their conversation. It was really quite interesting. And you propose to get one up here? Yes, we have it all planned. We can get ready in two or three weeks. The costumes take very little time, so many people have old fashioned things that belonged to their grandmothers among their treasures. Mrs. Ames says they charged a dollar or a couple for supper, and such a supper as we could get up out of the old fashioned dishes would be worth a dollar just to look at. Mrs. Tindall says she will help about the costumes, and Mrs. Douglas will select the boys and girls and assign them their parts. Then Mrs. Sullivan proposes that we have some old fashioned songs, which I think will be an excellent addition. We can get up some splendid singing here. Charlie Wilcox will take that in hand, I know. Now Mrs. Sayles, what do you think of it? You seem to have your arrangements almost perfected, answered Mrs. Sayles, if that remark could be called an answer to the question asked. We have, said Mrs. Tindall. I have even selected the character that I am going to personate. I have always had a passion for distinction, and I am going to be that famous personage, Old Mother Hubbard, who went to the cupboard. Only in this instance I expect you to see to it that the cupboard is not bare. We have been very busy since the idea was suggested to us, explained Mrs. Douglas, and everybody to whom we have spoken seems to like the idea and be ready to join us very heartily. I think, myself, perhaps it is as innocent and unobjectionable a way as any of affording our young people amusement. Abbey, you haven't told us what you thought of the plan yet. Oh, I like it, at least I think I do. I haven't given it very mature deliberation as yet. So what does Mr. Trecevant say about it? A sudden silence ensued. The ladies looked wonderingly at each other, and at last Mrs. Williams explained, We haven't said anything to him about it. He is here, you know, has been here for an hour. Wouldn't it be well to consult him before anything further is said? Meantime Mrs. Trecevant falls in with the plan, does she? Mrs. Williams laughed. It hasn't been mentioned to her, either. Why, ejaculated Mrs. Sales, amazement and disapproval in her voice. It was a strange oversight, Mrs. Williams said, but we were in such a gale talking about it that we never thought of consulting only those who happened this way. Some of you go and talk to Mr. Trecevant right away. Mrs. Tindall, you will, won't you? What's the use, interrupted Miss Charlotte Wilcox? Mr. Trecevant doesn't have to get up a festival or have anything to do with it, only to have a complimentary ticket sent him and come to grace the occasion. Why should we consult him? Oh, of course we ought, Mrs. Williams said. It isn't very bad taste not to have done it before. Miss Wilcox reiterated that she could not see it in that light. Mr. Trecevant had nothing to do with it. Don't you think, questioned Mrs. Sales gently, that the pastor of a church has to do with everything connected with that church, whatever it may be? But an innocent matter like that, what objection could he possibly have? Probably none, Mrs. Sales said. More than likely he would be pleased and enter into it heartily. The question was not of objections, but of common courtesy. Of course, Mrs. Williams said again, we are simply wasting time. We just didn't think of it, and that is all there is about it. Mrs. Tindall, will you go and talk to him? And Mrs. Tindall went, but she went too late. Mr. Trecevant had been in the house for an hour, and during that time, turn which way he would, had heard nothing talked about but the old folk's supper. The younger portion of the society, were in a state of gleeful excitement over the whole thing, had discussed it as one of the settled questions of the day, had appealed to him right and left as historic authority in the matter of costume or custom, and he, meantime, was nursing himself into a very unpleasant indignation. A church festival planned, arranged, all but executed, and he, the pastor of the church, learning of it by chance from the chatter of a group of girls. We have no special excuse to offer for the ladies of Newton. They had undoubtedly been guilty of a breach of common politeness. The difference between their experience and that of many other company of heedless workers is that many a pastor, seeing these things, feeling them keenly, feeling that his position is being injured, that his influence is being undermined by these very trifles, yet, for the sake of the cause, meekly endures, entering with smiling face and with heartiness he can assume into the work that has been all but done without so much as a hint as to whether he considers it wise or otherwise. Not such a man was Mr. Trecevant. The church had no business to plan anything pertaining to the prosperity or interest of the church without consulting him, and he knew it. So does many other know it, and yet it being not absolutely wrong does what he can do to aid it. Not so did Mr. Trecevant. His brow had been growing darker with every added sentence about the festival. Not that he disapproved of festivals, as many an earnest minister does, who yet endures them with much inward groaning and earnest looking forward to better days, when the money will be given heartily as unto the Lord without the necessity of returning equivalents in the shape of oysters and cakes, and endless mats and tidies and ponderous pin cushions. Mr. Trecevant had not been called to think seriously on the subject and had no strong convictions to overcome. He had merely his own important self in the way, and he found that a subject sufficiently large to fill his thoughts. Therefore Mrs. Tyndall found him in anything but a genial mood. He had nursed his wrath and his sense of personal insult until he had swelled it to a mountain. In vain she presented the merits of the case, the desire of the young people of the church to have a social gathering of some sort. If for any reason he did not approve of this, would he be kind enough to suggest something in its place, or was there anything connected with their present plans that they could leave out, and so secure his approval? Frank Hooper would hardly have been recognized in this earnest, courteous, respectful lady. She might as well have talked to the bust of Byron that stood just behind her for all impression that she seemed to make. Mr. Trecevant was utterly unapproachable. He had no objections to offer, no explanation to make, nothing to suggest. He simply did not approve of this thing, and trusted that it would at once be dropped. CHAPTER V THE TONGUE OF THE WISE USETH KNOWLEDGE ARRIGHT Dyer was the dismay many enveried the exclamations with which the report of Mrs. Tindall's mission was greeted. How perfectly hateful, said Miss Charlotte Wilcox, biting off her thread with energy. Just exactly what I expected, first from Mrs. Hughes, in great indignation. In justice to Mr. Trecevant, be it said that Mrs. Hughes represented that class of people who expect just exactly what has taken place, and are therefore never taken by surprise. She didn't state what were her reasons for being in this condition of expectation. That class of people never do. But what in the name of common sense is the reason of his disapproval was Mrs. Williams' earnest question. Mrs. Williams was one of the most earnest little women in the society, and spoke as she worked with energy. He didn't inform me, Mrs. Tindall answered dryly, going on with her hemming with commendable industry. Then I should have asked him, sputtered Miss Charlotte, I don't believe in being treated like a company of babies. He can, at least, tell us why he disapproves. Mrs. Douglas here found voice for the first time. Frank, did you tell him that there are no ring cakes or grab bags or any of the belongings of gambling saloons to be connected with it? No I didn't, I thought he would take that for granted. He might not, it is not so many ages since we indulged in that sort of thing or tried to. Don't you remember the trials that Dr. Mulford was called upon to endure in that line? That may be just the trouble, Mrs. Williams said, with a lightning up of her disturbed face. Somebody might go and explain that we are to be as proper as an army of deacons. Mrs. Tindall, will you try it again? It seems a pity to drop the whole thing, for nobody knows what, when we have it so nicely arranged. A peculiar flash of Mrs. Tindall's bright eyes reminded Mrs. Douglas very forcibly of Frank Hooper. She answered promptly, Excuse me, Mrs. Williams, I've served my time and my eloquence proved so unavailing that I'm utterly cast down. Try someone else. Then they all with one accord pounced upon Mrs. Sales. She was just the person. Mr. Tressavond bordered with her. She was better acquainted with him than any of them. Mrs. Sales earnestly protested. He hears and sees so much of me, ladies. I am obliged to explain all your faults and failings to him, you know. I am certain he must be heartily tired of my tongue. And Mrs. Douglas arose hurriedly and announced her willingness to undertake the mission for the sake of giving them a change of subject. She came back very soon, a heightened color in her cheeks, and with less to say for herself than Mrs. Tindall had. Is it all right? Was that the trouble? Have you made the way smooth? Were the questions that three eager ladies asked at one in the same moment? No, on the contrary, it is all wrong. That is not the trouble, and I'm sure I don't know what is. And we must give the matter up. That's always the way, Mrs. Hughes complained, though in truth that had never been the way before. Get all ready to do a thing and then have to give it up just for somebody's notion. I wouldn't do any such thing. Neither would I, Miss Charlotte said, in great indignation. It is too absurd to be treated in this way. The group of ladies had increased from time to time and now comprised several of the efficient workers of the Church all in various stages of indignation. They all talked at once, as ladies will do when they are interested, and thereby proved the remarkable fitness for public life. It was rather difficult to tell what anybody said by reason of the clamor of tongues. Mrs. Tindall was occupied in making serial comic remarks at the very persons by whom she was surrounded, but they were too much excited to stop for laughter. Mrs. Douglas contented herself with very brief sentences thrown in here and there when she was personally appealed to. Only Mrs. Sayles sat in absolute silence, with the trouble in her eyes deepening every moment. Mrs. Roberts, one of the late arrivals, finally sent a loaded shell into their midst. Let's go right straight on with our preparations and carry the thing through. We are not obliged to pin ourselves to his notions. I say so too, chimed in Miss Wilcox, he'd needn't be so ridiculous. There is nothing to find fault with, I'm sure, Mrs. Williams said, inclining strongly to the popular side. Then Mrs. Sayles lifted up her gentle voice. Of course, ladies, you are not an earnest, else there would speedily be something to find fault with in our own conduct. I never was more in earnest in my life, Mrs. Roberts declared with spirit. I don't see why Mr. Trecevant should have control over us. That would be sufficient if we were Catholics and he the priest. I think as much, said Miss Charlotte. I trust we all have control over our own hearts and have too much respect for our church and our pastor to be willing to do anything in deliberate opposition to his expressed opinion. Mrs. Sayles' voice was so low and gentle that it reminded one of a soft, quiet shower in the midst of an august heat. I'm sure I think as much of our church and our pastor as anybody can, Mrs. Williams said, just a trifle subdued. But I declare I think he might give us one reason for upsetting our plans in this fashion. I believe in following our own conscience and not pinning ourselves to any man, Mrs. Roberts delivered herself of this relevant sentence with great dignity and it served as fuel. The flames began to leap up high. Liberty of conscience is the subject under debate, said Mrs. Tindall, with a very grave face. Our conscience insists upon having an old folk supper and will be appeased with nothing else even if we have to sacrifice our pastor and our tempers to secure it. Whereupon several of the ladies stopped to laugh. But Mrs. Hughes fluttered into the lull. If you begin that way, you may expect to go on so. Never do anything that you want to. Mrs. Sayles, said Mrs. Williams desperately, do you think we ought to give it all up? Mrs. Sayles laughed pleasantly. I do not think there is a question in the minds of any of us as to that when we give ourselves a chance to think quietly, she said gently. Have we really not confidence enough in the man whom we as a church have called to be our shepherd, to believe that he has good and sufficient reasons for differing from us? Must we demand of him those reasons before we can trust him? And do we really expect him to treat us as an injudicious mother does her faithless children and explain everything before we will condescend to take any notice of his views? It was a somewhat lengthy speech, especially for the low voiced little woman, and her cheeks were brightly flushed when she paused. But our conscience is in the way, I tell you, persisted Mrs. Tyndall, and if that insists upon an old folk's supper and will be appeased with nothing else, shall we trample on our consciences? This time even Mrs. Roberts laughed a little and Mrs. Williams said quickly, of course we wouldn't be so rude as to go on with it, since he really does object, but it seems a little bit provoking. But what shall we do? asked Susie Roberts ruefully. She was to have represented a fair maiden in the days of seventy-six, and had her costume all imagined. Mrs. Sayles answered her brightly. That is a solemn question, Susie, since an old folk's supper is not to be had, what else is there worth living for? The flames lulled, but there was much unnatural heat left, and many low murmured disapprovals and uncomfortable words. Mrs. Sayles laid aside her sewing presently, and moved quietly and unobtrusively about among the wounded, who scattered in different directions to calm down as best they might. She was a general favorite, and no circle so small but opened to let her in. She had not much to say, only a softly dropped word here and there about the many petty trials and annoyances that a minister had, of which his people knew nothing, of how carefully he had probably thought about all these things, of how wide his experience had been, of how careful he felt it necessary to be over what seemed trifles. To Fanny Coleman, the chief soprano singer, she simply said that Mr. Tressivant found that opening anthem last Sabbath morning was very beautiful, just suited to her voice. In short, there wasn't a little knot of ladies gathered again during that evening that the small woman did not contrive to be in their midst for a few minutes and drop her little drops of balm. She did not come in contact with Mr. Tressivant. He stood aloof and eyed her solemnly and suspiciously. It was true he had been tried much in various ways that day, and the trials all pressed about him like a swarm of bees, and he nursed and fed them into vigor. Upstairs in the dressing-room Mrs. Sayles came in contact with Mrs. Douglas for a minute and said as they stood alone together, what naughty spirit took possession of you, Julia, that you didn't help us at all. I'm not a saint, snapped Mrs. Douglas, very much in the tone that she used sometimes to assume toward Dr. Douglas in the days when she was Julia Reed, bookkeeper in Mr. Sayles factory. How do you suppose he answered me when I humbly begged to know whether it was a question of fashionable gambling that affected his decision toward the festival? I begged, Mrs. Douglas, that I may hear no more about that affair. The subject is quite exhausted, I think, and I have expressed my views definitely and decisively. Courteous, wasn't it? How did you answer him? With the meekest of bows and absolute silence. Mrs. Sayles turned a pair of bright eyes on her cousin and spoke earnestly, Julia, it was very good and thoughtful in you not to repeat this conversation when you had such provocation. Thank you, said Mrs. Douglas, in mock humility. I'll tell the doctor that you think I am improving. It will cheer his heart wonderfully. Then, in a tone grown suddenly grave, Abby, what do you suppose is the trouble with Mr. Tressavant? Thus petitioned, Mrs. Sayles stood on tiptoe to reach her cousin's cheek, and, as she touched it, said softly, if I do not tell you what I think, we shall not feel the necessity of talking it over together. And, after all, it would only be supposition, you know. E.E. is wise as serpents, quoted Mrs. Douglas laughing. I just begin to understand that injunction. You and the doctor are living epistles on that subject. Then, very earnestly, you are right, too. I wish we were all more like you. It is an exceedingly small matter to get up a church quarrel over. I'll be as wise as two serpents, see if I am not. It was an exceedingly impudent proceeding, Mr. Tressavant told his wife, as he walked the floor of their own room, still in a disturbed state of mind. I have never been treated in that manner before, the idea of their all but getting up a church festival without having once consulted their pastor. I am quite certain that Mrs. Sayles was the prime mover in the entire affair. But I think I taught her a lesson today. She takes altogether too much on herself. In her dressing room, her loose blue wrapper folded about her, her fair hair pushed away from her temples, sat Mrs. Sayles, her open Bible on the light stand before her. She was not reading, only looking at the page and using, a touch of sadness on her pale, quiet face. Her husband, presently ceased his moving about the room, came up beside her, and, gathering one small hand within his own, made her finger point to one verse on the page. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. She looked up quickly. O Jerome, did you see, did you hear this afternoon? I both saw and heard, and I thanked God with all my heart that there had been given to me such a wise and patient and careful little wife. Ah, but you are mistaken. I did nothing at all, only just expressed my opinion as the rest did. But it is all so sad. Does the Church of Christ here in Newton really rest upon quicksand that so small and unimportant a matter can occasion such an excitement, and be the means of so many bitter words? As to that, her husband said gravely, I fear there are people here in Newton, as elsewhere, who place self first the Church next, and Christ last. CHAPTER 6 The Heart of the Wise Teacheth His Mouth What a flutter of satisfaction you are in, Mr. Sales said, looking at his wife with an amused face. I hope she is half as nice as you think her to be. Before that lady could indignantly protest, Mr. Trecevant asked a question, I have been wondering, Mrs. Sales, if a fortune had been left to you to bring such a shine to your eyes. Is it a gold mine or a new discovery of diamonds? It is diamonds and pearls and gold and everything else that is bright and precious in the shape of a very dear friend whom I have not seen in years and who is coming to me tomorrow. These are disappointing creatures, Mr. Trecevant answered, a touch of gravity in his voice. If you have not seen this one in years, I advise you not to build your hopes too high. People change so. Nevertheless, Mrs. Sales went about during the rest of that day with very shining eyes and very happy expectant face, which was not shaded in the least when on the morrow she had been sitting for a half an hour close beside her friend, and was now with her in her dressing-room, waiting while the rich masses of brown hair were being smoothed and braided into shape. I wrote you, you remember, that our clergyman and his wife boarded with us. Their room is directly opposite yours, so you will not be lonely, though ours is so far away. I had to be near the nursery, you know. I don't know about rooming so near to a clergyman's family, laughed the newcomer. I may shock their sense of propriety. I am not remarkable for my own propriety of action, you know. What about them? Are they young or old, grave or gay? You have never even told me the name. I fancy there was a sudden pause. The brush that had been moving swiftly down the masses of hair was checked in its progress, while the holder leaned forward and bent an earnest gaze on some prospect on the lawn beneath. What is it, asked her hostess, coming forward? Oh, that is our pastor under the maple tree, and his wife is the one in blue on the other side of the walk. They cannot see you, the vines shade the window, you know, but I will draw the curtains closer. The brush resumed its duties, and the young lady said in a quiet tone, I know your pastor and his wife, Abby. You do indeed? Where did you meet them and when? Are you much acquainted with them? Why, it is strange, but know now that I think of it, I don't believe I have happened to mention your name before them. I knew them in Lewiston. You remember I spent two years there with father. This Mr. Trezevant was my pastor during that time. Why, I knew he came from Lewiston, of course, but I never connected the name with you before. It is strange, too, that I haven't. But then, you know, you scarcely wrote to me during those two years. Then you knew him very well? Very well indeed. Well, tell me, please, then, what you think of him? Again the brush paused in its course. This came as a very strange question to Del Bronson's ears. She had never been asked it before. What did she think of Mr. Trezevant? Well, what did she? How was the question to be answered? What a queer world it was. Here was this Abbey standing beside her, the dearest, most intimate friend that she had in the world, yet how strange it would be to tell her the truth. To say, for instance, that that man down under the maple tree had once, not so very long ago, asked her to be his wife, that she loved him and had told him so, but that a strange and to her insurmountable obstacle had loomed up between them, that he had grown very angry with her at last, because she tried to smooth a bitter trial to him, none other than the being ignored as a minister of the gospel, while this little pink and white lady down there on the lawn had buried her first husband. That, after the lapse of time, she being still true to her own heart, and looking eagerly for the falling away of the great obstacle between them, had been transfixed with the news that the small lady down on the lawn had become his wife, that one day, not long afterward, they came, she in rustling silk and fluttering ribbons, and he in his professional character, and attended her father's funeral, and that she had not seen him since, until this glimpse of him under the maple tree. All these thoughts passed swiftly through her mind, but there was nothing in them to tell. For his sake, if not for hers, she must be very silent over this bit of past history. And in truth, nothing of these things answered the question, what did she think of Mr. Tressavant? It was such a queer question. It was years since she had asked it of herself. Once indeed she would have been prompt to answer, he was the embodiment of all that was good and grand and noble, but for one thing he would have been perfect. Why, but for one thing, she would have been down there standing with him underneath that maple tree at this moment. What a queer world! And then there first rushed upon her a realizing sense of the fact that she did not in the least desire to be under the maple tree with him, that it was altogether nicer and better to be Del Bronson up here in this beautiful room visiting with her friend and with what an absurd thought to come in just then, but it came bringing a flush to her cheek with a brief friendly letter from Mr. Nelson in her pocket. Meantime, Mrs. Sales waited in wondering silence for her answer. It came at last, slow-toned, hesitating. I think he is a good man. The most, the very most, that her truth-loving lips could frame to say. Surely enough, and yet Mrs. Sales drew a little bit of a sigh and answered in the same slow way, yes, I think he is. Del was silent and reflected thoughtfully. Was there more that she could have said? This man was her friend's pastor. She had it in her power, perhaps, to injure him. Had she unwittingly done so? Was it peak, a sense of wounded and trifled with affection that had prompted her hesitancy? She smiled over this thought and realized fully for the first time that she certainly was very grateful to him for putting it out of her power to go and stand under the maple with him as that tiny wife was doing. But then what would Abby think of all this hesitancy? Some dreadful thing, perhaps. There was certainly such a thing as truth which did not necessarily include the speaking of the whole truth. She pushed the last hairpin energetically into the coil of hair and faced round to her companion. Abby, if I tell you what I really think, you will not go imagining that I know of a duel that your pastor has fought and a murder or two that he has committed or any such horrible thing. I truly think that he is a good Christian man, a very eloquent preacher, a very earnest student, and that he is very much in love with himself. There, what dress shall I put on in order to charm your husband? It is very important that he should like me as I mean to make a long visit. Mr. Tressavant was taken at a disadvantage. No idea as to who the stranger was who was to join the family that day had entered his mind, and the first intubation he had of her presence was when a well-remembered vision of bright, fresh beauty paused before him with a clear-toned, how do you do, Mr. Tressavant? The clergyman's pale face flushed with surprise and embarrassment, but Dell turned promptly to his wife, who was valuable and eager in her greeting, and for once a source of considerable relief and comfort. You seem to have found old friends, Mr. Sales said, looking on in bright surprise, and Dell answered promptly, to our mutual astonishment save that I have the advantage of these people in that I caught a glimpse of them on the lawn but a short time ago. Then they all sat down to dinner, Mr. Tressavant struggling with his vexation at having betrayed special surprise or interest in this lady, and imagining, after the manner of self-absorbed persons, that he had been much more demonstrative than was at all the case. If that man could only have realized how he was feeding his soul on himself, what a blessing would have come to him, as it was every passing day increased his self-torment. Truly it was not a pleasant position to be seated opposite a young lady with whom he had hardly exchanged a dozen words since the evening on which he asked her to be his wife. Yet if he would have misjudged her all his life long, as he had been doing since his first acquaintance with her, truly it was the most comfortable thing that could have happened to either of them that their paths so widely diverged. Not one single act of her life with which he was familiar had he understood, or felt the force of her motive, and Dell Bronson was not a woman to live in a continual state of misunderstanding with her nearest friend and take it meekly. He had actually believed two-thirds of her enthusiasm on the subject of temperance to have its rise in the natural ambition of a brilliant young lady to be prominent in something, and that being the thing that offered first she accepted the position. When the issue arose between them he did not name it principle upon her part but a determination to rule even if she lost everything in the attempt, and it was not so much a sore heart that held him aloof from her during that long interval as a feeling of wounded pride that he had actually been worsted in the strife. Of course you are not to suppose that Mr. Trussavant, receiving all these feelings into his heart and brooding over them, ever felt genuine, earnest, Christian love toward the object of them. It is a question whether a self-absorbed man ever comes out of himself long enough to realize the true meaning of that much abused word. So there are no broken hearts to be talked about you will observe, and presently Mr. Trussavant roused out of himself sufficiently to join in the general conversation. Can you give us any Lewiston news, Ms. Bronson? was his first question when he had rallied. Del thought of the letter in her pocket. She had changed it from one pocket to the other when she changed her dress and answered, I should be the one to ask that question of you, sir. Of course Mrs. Trussavant has constant communication with her home friends while I have not seen a Lewiston face in more than two years. Ah, then we ought to be able to enlighten you as to some of your protégés. We came from there only two months since. Let me see, who were your special friends there? If his purpose was to annoy her, it was a foolish attempt. For when the young lady did not choose to be annoyed, it was a difficult matter to accomplish. A mischievous smile played around her lips as she answered promptly, Mr. Forbes was the main friend I had. He was especially kind to me during that time when I so much needed friends, and Sam Miller was another. Can you tell me anything about them, Mr. Trussavant? The flush on the clergyman's face deepened as he answered coldly. I was not particularly intimate with either of the gentlemen named, but I believe they are still at work at their trades. They both united with your church, I understood. They did. His tone was haughtier this time. Did they give satisfaction as regards their Christian character? I had no special fault to find with them. Would she ask next if he considered the temperance pledges stain on their characters, and so bring up the whole miserable subject here in his new home? No, such was no part of Del Bronson's intention. She glided away from the subject easily, not sorry that she had touched upon it at all as Mrs. Sales would have been, but with a resolute determination to carry no subject to the extent of putting a feather in the pastor's way. Abby, she said, as the two friends were sitting together in the twilight, do you know you gave me an impetus once that my life has never overcome? You said that no sooner did you find yourself in a new spot, surrounded by new faces, that you straight away began to look about you and see what manner of special personal work there was for you to do. Do you remember it? I don't remember telling you so, but that has been my habit for many years. And mine, since we talked about it together, I thought of it today on the cars. But people can set themselves to work so much quicker and so much more intelligently if they only have some friend to give them a little bit of a hint. For instance, what do you see here in Newton that you think I could do? I am not good at setting myself to work. My work here, too, for, has seemed to come squarely to me face to face and say, here, do me. You cannot get rid of doing me, you see, without absolute and open-eyed shirking. I don't think I know how to hunt after things. I don't think we need to hunt after them, Abby said gently. If we have but a willing spirit, I think they troop about us, eager to be done. Then, after a moment's pause, Dell couldn't you help our pastor? Dell laughed. What a queer idea, she said. What could I possibly do to help him? I don't know, Mrs. Sales answered meakly. There are ways, I suppose, and you are acquainted with him and his wife, and so know better how to help them. A little silence fell between them, Dell thinking earnestly. Perhaps there were ways. She was a little averse to trying that sort of work, which perhaps was one plain reason why she should. She had not been very helpful that day. She had carried him to the very verge of endurance, talking about Lewiston people. To be sure, she meant to go not a step further. But how should he know that? She broke the silence abruptly. I did not help him much today. No, her friend answered simply. There was not so much an inquiry in the tone as a quiet acknowledgement that that fact had been understood. Dell laughed again. You saw that, did you? Well he was rather exasperating in his questions to me. There are some things about Lewiston life that he ought to touch gently, but I am not going to haunt him. Then, after another silence, well, Abby, I mean to try. CHAPTER 7 For all this I considered in my heart even to declare all this, that the righteous and the wise and their works are in the hand of God. Mr. Sales joined the family group in back parlor as they lingered in various stages of busy idleness, awaiting the sound of the dinner bell. Dell had only been among them three days, yet had dropped naturally into the ways of the household and by the master of the house been taken as heartily into his list of friends as though their friendship had been of years' growth. His usually bright face was clouded with care or anxiety or both. His wife noted the shadow and, after a vain effort to dispel it with many words, at last made inquiry. Jerome, what is the trouble? You look as though the affairs of the nation rested on your shoulders. The affairs of the mildew, he answered, smiling, and a derangement of machinery there affects a small portion of the nation unpleasantly. Is anything wrong? Yes, he said, the shadow resting heavily. I have had trouble with my foreman again and have been obliged to give him a final dismissal, and besides feeling very sorry for him it is a place exceedingly difficult to fill. Miss Cramer, your foreman, Mr. Trecevant, asked. Yes, and a good faithful fellow, if he would let liquor alone. What a curse that thing is! How shall we fight it, Mr. Trecevant? Perhaps that gentleman would have answered less stiffly than he did if there had not been a pair of very bright eyes suddenly fixed on him from Dell's corner. As it was, his voice sounded cold and indifferent. The gospel is fighting it, Mr. Sales. I know of no better weapon. Yes, Mr. Sales said, sighing heavily, however, but the trouble is, Cramer, for instance, steers clear of the gospel and everything else that would be likely to benefit him. I confess that I am at my wit's ends. I held on to him as long as I could on account of his family. Well, Miss Dell, what a sympathetic face! It is the embodiment of sunshine. Are you particularly charmed with the poor fellow's fate? I'm charmed with the mill and my own brilliant ideas, all said eagerly. Is it a paper mill? Yes, a large one, and at present almost entirely under my control, and a precious charge I find it. And this man of whom you speak, he is—what? What does he have to know? He is, or was, foreman of the works, and understood the machinery pretty thoroughly, and the sort of work that ought to be produced. Then, Mr. Sales, I have just the man for you. I am absolutely delighted to hear it. Will you have him at the mill at six o'clock tomorrow morning? Hardly, Dell said, since he was several miles away. But really, I think he would suit you, and he is very much in need of a situation. I should be so glad if you could help him. Is he a personal friend, Miss Bronson? Questioned Mrs. Trecevant with the disagreeable inflection to her voice. Yes, he is, Dell said, with flushing face, while Mr. Sales crossed to her side, saying as he did so. I should certainly be very glad if he could help me. Begin at the beginning, please, and tell me all that you know of him. Well, sir, he is a young man, twenty-three or four, I should think. Has been brought up almost from his babyhood in the paper mill at Lewiston. I have heard the superintendent of that mill say that he understood the works better than any man in the mill, and he has recently been promoted several times. He was made assistant foreman last year, and but for the interference of one man would have been foreman. What did you say his name was? His name, said Dell, her cheeks aglow, and seeming compelled just then to look over at Mr. Trecevant, his name is James Forbes, whereupon Mr. Trecevant laughed and Mrs. Trecevant burst forth volubly. Why, Miss Bronson, you surely cannot be serious in recommending that fellow to Mr. Sales for a foreman. He is the most ignorant booby I ever saw, positively or rough. But one needs some of the elements of a gentleman for a foreman. Isn't it so, Mr. Sales? Well, said Mr. Sales, good-humoredly, kid-gloves and broadcloth are not exactly essentials. While Dell asked, composedly, when did you last see the person in question, Mrs. Trecevant? I? Oh, I very seldom saw him. I'm not sure that I have had a glimpse of him since he made that funny speech and temperance meeting. You remember? Certainly, of all the queer murdering of the English language that I ever heard, I think that excelled. Is he a temperance man, Mr. Sales interrupted quickly, and Dell answered promptly, Yes, sir, he is a very earnest, faithful one. Mrs. Trecevant, that meeting you speak of, was held rather more than three years ago. A great many changes can occur in that length of time. My dear, said Mr. Trecevant, you must remember that Miss Bronson probably knows more about the boy than we do. Yes, to be sure, Mrs. Trecevant said, with a disagreeable laugh, I was not intimately acquainted with him. But, Miss Dell, said Mr. Sales, what good will this young man do me if he is in such high favor at the Lewiston Mills? He is not in favor now, sir, he has been discharged. Again, Mrs. Trecevant laughed and inquired if that were one of his recommendations. Dell ignored this remark and continued her explanation to Mr. Sales. There was trouble among some of the operatives, a quarrel ending in blows. It commenced in liquor-drinking, at a supper given to some of the men by the chief owner of the mill, and Mr. Forbes, being called on to give his statement of the trouble, ventured his opinion that it was the liquor that was so freely distributed among the men that was the main source of the disturbance, whereupon he was discharged on the charge of having been insolent to his employer. That is a very extraordinary statement, Miss Bronson, Mr. Trecevant said with arching eyebrows. May I be allowed to ask if the person in question was your informant? No, sir, he was not. There was a good deal of the old, well-remembered flash to Dell's eyes as she said this. My informant was Mr. Nelson, who was present at the investigation. And this Mr. Nelson is reliable, you think? This question Mr. Sales asked, notebook in hand, whereupon he had been jotting down items from time to time. Mr. Nelson was the former superintendent of the works, a very earnest Christian man who was deeply interested in this young man and esteems him highly. The dinner bell peeled through the house. Mr. Sales arose, closed his notebook, consulted his watch, and turned toward his wife. My dear, can you excuse me from dinner? Dinners are very important, I know, but this mill business is really more so. Father is considerably disturbed about it, but I want to telegraph to this young man at once and have a reply, if possible, before the mail closes. Miss Dell, you may be certain I will secure him if I can. A young man who is a sufferer for conscience's sake on the liquor question will be a positive refreshment in the Newton mills. Dell took out her letter when she went to her room after dinner and glanced again over one paragraph. Our friend Forbes is in deep trouble, and then followed a recital of what Dell has already made known to you. So he is entirely out of employment, thus the letter ran. It is especially hard at this season of the year when work is difficult to get. He has tried in various directions with no success. He feels it keenly, and the rum powers are very merry over him. I wish it were the Lord's will to give him a signal victory just now, both for his sake and theirs. Dell laughed gleefully as she refolded her letter. If he should be engaged as foreman of the Newton mills, large enough to swallow a dozen mills the size of the one at Lewiston, what a signal victory it would be! Then her face darkened a little. How thoroughly determined Mr. Tresavant was that he should not come here, she said thoughtfully. Now why should he care? About that time her old acquaintance, Jim Forbes, sat in much despondency on the side of his bed in his room in the attic. His most earnest efforts to procure employment had hitherto proved total failures. He had come home that day from a visit to the town twenty miles below, come home utterly cast down and disheartened, and he sat now with his chin resting gloomily in both hands, wondering what he should do next. Little Tommy from the kitchen unceremoniously opened the attic door and summoned him. Jim! Well? You're wanted. Who wants me? A man at the door, he's got a letter for you, but he won't give it to you till it's paid for. Jim raised himself slowly and wonderingly from his bed. He was a very unusual thing to be wanted by a man at the door and a most unheard of thing to have a letter. He doubted the whole story. Nevertheless it seemed proper to go and see. A telegram, more wonderful still. He never had a telegram in his life. He promptly paid the desired quarter and tore open the envelope. Will you come to Newton first train, expenses paid, answer, A.L. sales, Superintendent Newton paper mills? Wouldn't he, the Newton mills? How in the world could they have heard of him way off there in that big town in those big mills? It must be they had worked for him. But how could they know anything about him? This thought first, and then a reverent look in Jim's earnest eyes, and he said half aloud, God is acquainted with Newton, it's likely. As it came to pass that one evening, not long after this, Del Bronson sat in the back parlor talking with an earnest-faced young man who was dressed in a neat-fitting business suit and who talked well and earnestly. It is very remarkable what three years of sobriety and industry, and above all of prayer, will do for a person. Since as Jim Forbes quaintly expressed it, Jesus Christ went after him to that distant city and found him he had been steadily progressing. An aim he had had. The memory of his visit to Boston was still fresh in his mind when Del and Del's uncle treated him like a king, but the young man whom his employer addressed as Carrie had made a deep impression. A young man not older than himself, a working man, clerked in that great store, yielding all proper deference to the man who employed him, yet being treated by that same great man with a certain degree of confidence and respect. When Jim Forbes came to himself, he longed inexpressibly to be such and one as that young Carrie, not a clerk in a store that had no charm for him, there was no neatly fitting bands and screws and complicated machinery in which his heart took delight about that. But in his own particular sphere, to move about with the briskness and energy that had characterized young Carrie and some time when he had earned the right to it to be treated with that frank kindness and confidence that Mr. Stockwell had shown to his clerk, this was Jim Forbes' goal. A very different master from that of young Carrie's had been his, and many and constant had been his drawbacks and disappointments, yet he had steadily and patiently held on his way, and tonight Del looked at him with a little feeling of exaltation at her heart. He certainly was no rough, but a remarkably well-behaved, properly dressed, respectable-looking young man. His face was just a little troubled, there was evidently something on his mind, at last he put it into words. Don't you think, Miss Bronson, that perhaps it would be better for me to go to the Church Street Church? Why? Well, I—I don't know, as it's quite a proper thing for me to say, but I think Mr. Tressavant would, maybe, be better pleased. Anyway, Mr. Forbes would like it better, is that so? Jim laughed a little. Well, Miss Bronson, I don't deny that I should be likely to feel just as comfortable, but then—but then you are ready to do just what is nearest right? Yes, I am. The reply was too ready and earnest to admit of a moment's question as to its hardiness. Well, Mr. Forbes, I'll tell you just what I think, and then, of course, you must choose for yourself. If I were you, I would enter with all my heart into the life of the Regent Street Church. Mr. Sales, you know, loves that church, and will like to have you in it. And there are some more grandmen in it who will welcome and help you. Then a good many of the mill hands go there, and you want to have a strong influence over them, and coming in contact with them as you do, you can, through them, help Mr. Tressavant in his work. But Miss Bronson, Jim said doubtfully, I can't help but having a kind of feeling that Mr. Tressavant don't want to be helped by me in any way, don't want to have anything to do with me one way or another. If Del could only have promptly and truthfully negative that as a false and unworthy feeling. As it was, she realized a cause for its existence, but she answered him quickly, you and I have no right to judge Mr. Tressavant, you know, but what if the Master wants you to work for him in the Regent Street Church? Then I want to do it, said Jim quickly and solemnly. So these three, so utterly unlike in their work, Mrs. Bales, Del Bronson, and Jim Forbes, set themselves about the work of helping the Regent Street Pastor with all their hearts, he, meanwhile, knowing nothing about it. CHAPTER VIII They are wise to do evil, but to do good they have no knowledge, but God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise. It was a very comfortable day, at least such was the verdict of Mrs. Sales and Del Bronson. The rain came down with a steady, unceasing drizzle, and the sky reached down to the hills on every side and was lead color. Nevertheless, the library was in a delightful state of coziness, and neither shopping nor calls haunted the conscience of the presiding genius of the house, so she gave herself over to the domain of unmixed pleasure. Both ladies sewed while they talked, at least Mrs. Sales did, on a small white garment for baby Essie, but Del had dropped her work on the floor beside her and was engaged in holding and petting and trying to learn the names of eleven dolls to the no-smile delight of the aforesaid baby Essie, who was holding high carnival in the library in honor of the rainy day. Mrs. Sales suddenly paused in the midst of a sentence and watched the slow progress of a woman crossing the street in the mud, who had a three-fold object in view, to protect her dress from the muddy crosswalk, to prevent sundry parcels from falling thereon, and to keep her umbrella right side up in spite of a strong wind that was bent on getting the best of it. There, Del, the looker on set at last, we are going to have a call in defiance of the rain. I had a pre-sentiment that that woman was coming here. And who is that woman, who is no wiser than to come here today of all days in the year? That is Mrs. Thomas Adams, a very good-hearted woman, and one who talks much more sensibly and pleasantly than many who have had twice her advantages. I am surprised to see her out, though. She seldom has time for calls. I am afraid she is in trouble. The lady rang and was admitted, but no summons came to Mrs. Sales. It is not I who am wanted after all, Mrs. Sales said presently, as the sound of footsteps was heard ascending the stairs and going in the direction of Mr. Tresivant's room. I forgot that we boarded the minister. I am real glad that Mrs. Adams has called. I was afraid she would be too timid. But what an extraordinary day she has selected for the undertaking. Oh, she has need not to be afraid of the rain. Her work calls her out in all kinds of weather. I suppose she hoped to escape meeting other collars by choosing such a forbidding day. If they don't come down immediately, I'm going to speak to her a moment. I believe I will, anyway. She will feel more comfortable. Before this hospitable intention could be carried out, Hannah opened the door with a somewhat puzzled face. Will you see Mrs. Adams, ma'am? She questioned. Did she ask for me, Hannah? No, ma'am, she didn't. She asked for Mr. and Mrs. Tresivant, but they ain't neither of them coming down, and I thought maybe you would want to see her. Mrs. Sales looked the dismay that she controlled herself from speaking. What message have you for her, she asked at length. He said tell her he was engaged. Perhaps Mrs. Tresivant will come down? She said she wasn't coming anyhow for nobody, Hannah said, trying to hide her face behind the door to conceal a smile. Well, Hannah, I will give Mrs. Adams the message. You may go. As the door closed after her, Mrs. Sales turned to her friend. Del, what shall I do? Make your pastor over to suit your mind, laughed Del. He certainly needs it, and I don't know what else you can do. But Mrs. Adams is a particularly sensitive woman, and her husband has very recently commenced attending church. I am afraid it will offend them both. You see, she don't understand about excuses. Would you venture to tell him what sort of a woman she is? They are strangers, you know. You might venture, Del said, with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. I believe I will. If I were a minister, I should be obliged to anyone who would enlighten me a little as to people. Somewhat doubtfully, she ascended the stairs on her self-appointed mission. Mr. Tresivant answered her gentle tap, and she announced her errand in a deprecating voice. Mr. Tresivant, you won't think me a vicious will you if I venture to plead for Mrs. Adams. She is a peculiarly sensitive woman, one of the class you know who are always imagining themselves slighted, and her husband has but lately commenced attending church at all. She very rarely gets to see anyone, if you could give her just a few minutes. Now Mr. Tresivant had no special reason for not having time to spare at that moment, nor for refusing to see Mrs. Adams, save that he had just been indulging in an uncomfortable talk with his wife and was in a disturbed state of mind. He was half inclined to yield the point and to send the stairs, but a wretched remembrance came over him just at that moment that Mrs. Sales was endeavoring to assume the management of him, and that he must not omit an opportunity of assuring her that he was his own master. She must be a very troublesome sort of person, I should say, he answered loftily, the less one has to do with such people the better as a general thing. I sent my regrets down to her and must beg you to excuse me. Utterly banquished, Mrs. Sales descended the stairs, stood irresolute in the hall for some seconds, and finally sought Mrs. Adams. Oh, to be able to state that both Mr. and Mrs. Tresivant were alarmingly ill, or at least in no condition to descend the stairs. As it was, she blundered and stammered and she feared made sad work of her story and Mrs. Adams' stay was short. All the comfort of that peaceful afternoon was gone. Mrs. Sales was troubled and could not rise above her fears. Half an hour afterward, Hannah answered another ring and carried Judge Benson's cart up to the study and down came Mr. and Mrs. Tresivant to receive him and must need seat themselves in front of the bay window in full view of Mrs. Adams as she plotted toward home with more bundles. She deserves to lose half of them in the mud, Del said viciously, to pay for giving us such a wretched afternoon. Here, Essie, take your eleven children. I've not patience enough to be a grandmother now. And again Mrs. Sales, dropping the small white dress in her lap as she spoke, said earnestly, Del, what shall I do? Let it go and give him a chance to see what a delightful muddle he can get things into, advised Del wickedly. You don't mean that, said Mrs. Sales sadly. You see, he doesn't realize and cannot be expected to how unpleasant the results may be and how disastrous to the religious interests of that family. He realizes that she is Mrs. Adams, the wife of one of the workmen and that the gentleman he is entertaining is Judge Benson. Del, said Mrs. Sales, as she resumed her sewing, you are not trying to help. What on earth can I do? Del said with a mixture of mirth and vexation in her voice. Nevertheless, she was quiet and thoughtful after that for some minutes. At last she broke the silence. Abby, is this Mrs. Adams, the mother of that young girl that Mr. Forbes brought to prayer meeting the other evening? Yes, Abby said. Well then, he must be quite well acquainted with the family. Take him into confidence. He will smooth the matter over. How can he? I don't know, but I shall be surprised if he doesn't find a way. He is decidedly sharp and especially interested in this girl, I think. I have met him with her a number of times. I'll engage to tell him about it and see what he can do if you wish. I might write a note to Jerome to send him up on some errand if you really think he could help us any. I don't want that man to go away from church again and he stayed away for years for a more trivial cause than this. I'll send for your friend this minute. But it's ridiculously rainy. Won't it do tomorrow? I don't know. I'm afraid to put off things when I have them to do. Hannah won't mind the rain. Mr. Sales, sitting in his private office, received not long afterward from a very damp Hannah a bit of twisted paper. Its contents were, Dear Jerome, please send Mr. Forbes up here on some errand. We want to see him. Let him come in the course of an hour, Abby. Mr. Sales smiled, said, All right, there's no answer to Hannah and continued his writing for half an hour. Then he rang his office bell. The bellboy answered it. Is Carter in? Carter was the errand boy. No, sir, he has gone to Park Street on an errand. Very well, ask Mr. Forbes to step here a moment. Mr. Forbes said he, as that man appeared, have you a leisure half hour? Yes, sir, I can take one. I wish then you would deliver this package safely at the bank and then step into Sniders and pay their bill. I believe there is rather more than enough in this role to cover the amount. And if you will call at the house on your way back and leave this note for my wife, you will be able to accomplish several things at once. Carter has been sent in another direction, they tell me. Mrs. Sales laughed a little over the important note that was brought to her through the rain. It was one hurried line. Blessed little schemer, what's in the wind now? She detained the messenger, however, while she wrote a reply and Dell entered with energy into the business at hand. Mr. Forbes, do you know that Adam's family, whose daughter works in the mill? Mr. Forbes, with a reddening face, admitted that he did. Well, then, I wonder if you could help us a little bit. Then came a careful recital of the afternoon's developments, worded as cautiously, so far as Mr. Trecevon's share in it was concerned, as though Dell had no fault to find with him, save that of being unable to devote his entire time to collars. Mr. Forbes listened with silent, intelligent attention, nodding now and then by way of testifying to his appreciation of the difficulties of the occasion, asked presently a question or two, and, rising the moment the note for which he considered himself waiting, seemed to be in readiness, said, I think it will be all right, Ms. Bronson, I'll try it anyway. On his way downtown, he made one or two calls on his own responsibility. Dropping into a certain corner bookstore, he inquired when and by whom the next lecture was to be. It's tomorrow evening by the Reverend Mr. Trecevon, one of the clerks told him, and Mr. Forbes took two tickets and went on his way. Around the corner of Stone Street, down one block, and he was at Judge Benson's office. That gentleman was sitting behind the desk, very busy and alone, Mr. Forbes ventured in. Would Judge Benson excuse his interruption and be so good as to tell him whether it was true that the Reverend Mr. Trecevon was to deliver the next home lecture? He knew Judge Benson was the chairman of the committee and had made bold to ask the question. Judge Benson eyed benevolently over his gold-bowed glasses, the respectable-looking young man who evidently belonged to the working classes, a company of people very dear to this judge's heart. It is true, he said, speaking genially, the bills will be out tomorrow morning. We could not determine on the evening before, but I have been to see Mr. Trecevon this afternoon and it is all right. Are you interested in the course of lectures, young man? Very much indeed, Mr. Forbes assured him, and besides, Mr. Trecevon was his pastor. Is he indeed, and you are therefore anxious to hear him? That speaks well for you as a man and for him as a pastor. It is an excellent thing to see a young man like you interested in such matters. What is your business, may I ask? And on being informed, he further inquired his name and how long he had been in the little city and further showed such interest in his welfare that the young man was astonished. However, he bowed himself out and sped rapidly to the mill, his little plan in a very matured and satisfactory state. Of course, he did not hear Judge Benson's remarks that were made to his inner self as the door closed. A good frank face looks as though he might make a man and be a sort of leader among those fellows. I mean to keep an eye on him, so he is anxious to hear his pastor. That's more than I expected. Somehow that gentleman didn't impress me as one calculated to sympathize with the working men. I thought we had made a mistake in selecting him for this course of lectures, but I guess I'm wrong. He is very likely more than he seems. It was queer how many balls this little plan set rolling that not a single one of the workers knew anything about. Mr. Forbes dressed in his best suit and looking like anything but a rough would have been found that evening sitting closely in the little sitting room of the Adamses. Mr. Adams was not at home, but Mrs. Adams sat in her corner at one end of the little square table, diligently darning a pair of blue-yarned socks. Beside her was her daughter Jenny hemming towels. At least she was holding the towels and making very little progress. Her two brothers, Charlie and Johnny, occupied the remaining places at the table, busy with books and pencils. Rather close quarters this family kept, but kerosene had advanced several cents on a gallon, and it was necessary to watch all the leakages in the family expenses. So one small lamp did duty for all. Very comfortable they all looked, save that there was a gloom cast on the mother's face that the cheerful chatter of the young people failed to dispel. The visitor had been watching her furtively from time to time. Presently he said. The next lecture in the people's course comes off tomorrow evening. Does it? asked Jenny eagerly, her rosy cheeks promptly growing rosier. And how could she help wondering if Mr. Forbes was going, and if he could mean to invite her? How nice it would be if he did. She had been to so few lectures. Our minister is going to lecture, continued Mr. Forbes after a little pause, and immediately he noted a drawing down of Mrs. Adams' mouth while Jenny glanced in a troubled way toward her and answered nothing. I expect this has been a busy day with him, Mr. Forbes added, feeling his way carefully, endeavoring to be as wise as a serpent. They didn't decide upon having the lecture so soon until this morning. I stopped in at Judge Benson's office this afternoon, and he said he had been up to see Mr. Tressavant and make all the plans, so he must be having a busy time. Jenny's eyes took on a triumphant gleam, and she spoke joyously. There, mother, I told you there was some good reason for Mr. Tressavant not coming down to see you this afternoon. I knew he wasn't that kind of a man. You see, he had to come down to Judge Benson whether he had time or not. The pucker in Mrs. Adams' mouth still stayed, and she spoke in stiff tones as she drew the long blue thread through the gaping hole. In my day it wasn't considered no disgrace for a man to explain the reason why, if he couldn't see a body, especially if he was the minister, but times has changed. Nevertheless, there gradually stole into her face a mollified look, and the wrinkles slowly smoothed out so that by the time Mr. Forbes had added his next drop of oil in the shape of a hearty invitation to Jenny to share his tickets, the mother's mouth had trembled into a smile, and she allowed that she would be glad to hear Mr. Tressavant herself. She thought he was a powerful preacher. Anyhow, she was glad her Jenny was to have the chance of going. End of chapter 8, recording by Tricia G.