"Good for the gal," said Tom, and a murmur of approbation ran through the crowd.

"Of course, we forgave her. We'd hev done it ef she married Satan himself," continued the deacon. "But we begged her to bring her husband up home, an' let us look at him. Whatever was good enough for her to love was good enough for us, and we meant to try to love Hesby's husband."

"Done yer credit, deacon, too," declared Tom, and again the crowd uttered a confirmatory murmur. "Ef some folks—deacons, too—wuz ez good—But go ahead, deac'n."

"Next thing we heard from her, he had gone to the place he was raised in; but a friend of his, who went with him, came back, an' let out he'd got tight, an' been arrested. She writ him right off, beggin' him to come home, and go with her up to our place, where he could be out of temptation an' where she'd love him dearer than ever."

"Pure gold, by thunder!" ejaculated Tom, while a low "You bet," was heard all over the room.

Tom's eyes were in such a condition that he thought the deacon's were misty, and the deacon noticed the same peculiarities about Tom.

"She never got a word from him," continued the deacon; "but one of her own came back, addressed in his writing."

"The infernal scoundrel!" growled Tom, while from the rest of the boys escaped epithets which caused the deacon, indignant as he was, to shiver with horror.

"She was nearly crazy, an' started to find him, but nobody knowed where he was. The postmaster said he'd come to the office ev'ry day for a fortnight, askin' for a letter, so he must hev got hers."

"Ef all women had such stuff in 'em," sighed Tom, "there'll be one fool less in California. 'Xcuse me, deac'n."

"She never gev up hopin' he'd come back," said the deacon, in accents that seemed to indicate labored breath "an' it sometimes seems ez ef such faith 'd be rewarded by the Lord some time or other. She teaches Pet—that's her child—to talk about her papa, an' to kiss his pictur; an' when she an' Pet goes to sleep, his pictur's on the pillar beween 'em."

"An' the idee that any feller could be mean enough to go back on such a woman! Deacon, I'd track him right through the world, an' just tell him what you've told us. Ef that didn't fetch him, I'd consider it a Christian duty an' privilege to put a hole through him."

"I couldn't do that," replied the deacon, "even ef I was a man uv blood; fur Hesby loves him, an' he's Pet's dad; Besides, his pictur looks like a decent young chap—ain't got no hair on his face, an' looks more like an innercent boy than anythin' else. Hesby thinks Pet looks like him, an' I couldn't touch nobody looking like Pet. Mebbe you'd like to see her pictur," continued the deacon, drawing from his pocket an ambrotype, which he opened and handed Tom.

"Looks sweet ez a posy," said Tom, regarding it tenderly. "Them little lips uv hern look jest like a rose when it don't know whether to open a little further or not."

The deacon looked pleased, and extracted another picture, and remarked, as he handed it to Tom:

"That's Pet's mother."



Tom took it, looked at it, and screamed:

"My wife!"

He threw himself on the floor, and cried as only a big-hearted man can cry.

The deacon gazed wildly about, and gasped:

"What's his name?—tell me quick!"

"Tom Dosser!" answered a dozen or more.

"That's him! Bless the Lord!" cried the deacon, and finding a seat, dropped into it, and buried his face in his hands.

For several moments there was a magnificent attempt at silence, but it utterly failed. The boys saw that the deacon and Tom were working a very large claim, and to the best of their ability they assisted.

Stumpy Flukes, under the friendly shelter of the bar, was able to fully express his feelings through his eyelids, but the remainder of the party, by taking turns at staring out the windows, and contemplating the bottles behind the bar, managed to delude themselves into the belief that their eyes were invisible. Finally, Tom arose. "Deacon—boys," he said, "I never got that letter. I wus afeard she'd hear about my scrape, so I wrote her all about it, ez soon ez I got sober, an' begged her to forgive me. An' I waited an' hoped an' prayed for an answer, till I growed desperate; an' came out here."

"She never heerd from you, Thomas," sighed the deacon.

"Deac'n," said Tom, "do you s'pose I'd hev kerried this for years"—here he drew out a small miniature of his wife—"ef I hadn't loved her? Yes, an' this too," continued Tom, producing a thin package, wrapped in oilskin. "There's the only two letters I ever got from her, an', just cos her hand writ 'em, I've had 'em just where I took 'em from for four years. I got 'em at Albany, 'fore I got on that cussed tare, an' they was both so sweet an' wifely, that I've never dared to read 'em since, fur fear that thinkin' on what I'd lost would make me even wuss than I am. But I ain't afeard now," said Tom, eagerly tearing off the oilskin, and disclosing two envelopes.

He opened one, took out the letter, opened it with trembling hands, stared blankly at it, and handed it to the deacon.

"Thar's my letter now—I got 'em in the wrong envelope!"

"Thomas," said the deacon, "the best thing you can do is to deliver that letter yourself. An' don't let any grass grow under your feet, ef you ken help it."

"I'm goin' by the first hoss I ken steal," said Tom.

"An' tell her I'll be along ez soon as I pan out enough," continued the deacon.

"An' tell her," said Boston Ben, "that the gov'nor won't be much behind you. Tell her that when the crowd found out how game the old man was, and what was on his mind, that the court was so ashamed of hisself that he passed around the hat for Pet's benefit, and"—here Boston Ben thoughtfully weighed the hat in his hands—"and that the apology's heavy enough to do Europe a dozen times; I know it, for I've had to travel myself occasionally."

Here he deposited the venerable tile with its precious contents on the floor in front of the deacon. The old man looked at it, and his eyes filled afresh, as he exclaimed:

"God bless you! I wish I could do something for you in return."

"Don't mention it," said Boston Ben, "unless—you—You couldn't make up your mind to a match with English Sam, could you?"

"Come, boys," interrupted Stumpy Flukes; "its my treat—name your medicine—fill high—all charged?—now then—bottom up, to 'The meanest man at Blugsey's'!"

"That did mean you, deacon!" exclaimed Tom; "but I claim it myself now, so—so I won't drink it."

The remainder of the crowd clashed glasses, while Tom and his father-in-law bowed profoundly. Then the whole crowd went out to steal horses for the two men, and had them on the trail within an hour. As they rode off, Stumpy Flukes remarked:

"There's a splendid shot ruined for life."

"Yes," said Boston Ben, with a deep sigh struggling out of his manly bosom, "an' a bully rassler, too. The Church has got a good deal to answer fur, fur sp'ilin' that man's chances."



DEACON BARKER'S CONVERSION.

Of the several pillars of the Church at Pawkin Centre, Deacon Barker was by all odds the strongest. His orthodoxy was the admiration of the entire congregation, and the terror of all the ministers within easy driving distance of the Deacon's native village. He it was who had argued the late pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church into that state of disquietude which had carried him, through a few days of delirious fever, into the Church triumphant; and it was also Deacon Barker whose questions at the examination of seekers for the ex-pastor's shoes had cast such consternation into divinity-schools, far and near, that soon it was very hard to find a candidate for ministerial honors at Pawkin Centre.

Nor was his faith made manifest by words alone. Be the weather what it might, the Deacon was always in his pew, both morning and evening, in time to join in the first hymn, and on every Thursday night, at a quarter past seven in winter, and a quarter before eight in summer, the good Deacon's cane and shoes could be heard coming solemnly down the aisle, bringing to the prayer-meeting the champion of orthodoxy. Nor did the holy air of the prayer-meeting even one single evening fail to vibrate to the voice of the Deacon, as he made, in scriptural language, humble confessions and tearful pleadings before the throne, or—still strictly scriptural in expression—he warned and exhorted the impenitent. The contribution-box always received his sixpence as long as specie payment lasted, and the smallest fractional currency note thereafter; and to each of the regular annual offerings to the missionary cause, the Bible cause, and kindred Christian enterprises, the Deacon regularly contributed his dollar and his prayers.

The Deacon could quote scripture in a manner which put Biblical professors to the blush, and every principle of his creed so bristled with texts, confirmatory, sustentive and aggressive, that doubters were rebuked and free-thinkers were speedily reduced to speechless humility or rage. But the unregenerate, and even some who professed righteousness, declared that more fondly than to any other scriptural passage did the good Deacon cling to the injunction, "Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness." Meekly insisting that he was only a steward of the Lord, he put out his Lord's money that he might receive it again with usury, and so successful had he been that almost all mortgages held on property near Pawkin Centre were in the hands of the good Deacon, and few were the foreclosure sales in which he was not the seller.

The new pastor at Pawkin Centre, like good pastors everywhere, had tortured himself into many a headache over the perplexing question, "How are we to reach the impenitent in our midst!" The said impenitent were, with but few exceptions, industrious, honest, respectable, law-abiding people, and the worthy pastor, as fully impregnated with Yankee-thrift as with piety, shuddered to think of the waste of souls that was constantly threatening. At length, like many another pastor, he called a meeting of the brethren, to prayerfully consider this momentous question. The Deacon came, of course, and so did all the other pillars, and many of them presented their views. Brother Grave thought the final doom of the impenitent should be more forcibly presented; Deacon Struggs had an abiding conviction that it was the Man of Sin holding dominion in their hearts that kept these people away from the means of grace; Deacon Ponder mildly suggested that the object might perhaps be attained if those within the fold maintained a more godly walk and conversation, but he was promptly though covertly rebuked by the good Deacon Barker, who reminded the brethren that "it is the Spirit that quickeneth"; Brother Flite, who hadn't any money, thought the Church ought to build a "working-man's chapel," but this idea was promptly and vigorously combated by all men of property in the congregation. By this time the usual closing hour had arrived, and after a benediction the faithful dispersed, each with about the ideas he brought to the meeting.

Early next morning the good Deacon Barker, with his mind half full of the state of the unconverted, and half of his unfinished cow-shed, took his stick and hobbled about the village in search of a carpenter to finish the incomplete structure. There was Moggs, but Moggs had been busy all the season, and it would be just like him to want full price for a day's work. Stubb was idle, but Stubb was slow. Augur—Augur used liquor, and the Deacon had long ago firmly resolved that not a cent of his money, if he could help it, should ever go for the accursed stuff. But there was Hay—he hadn't seen him at work for a long time—perhaps he would be anxious enough for work to do it cheaply.

The Deacon knocked at Hay's door, and Hay himself shouted:

"Come in."

"How are ye, George," said the Deacon, looking hastily about the room, and delightfully determining, from the patient face of sad-eyed Mrs. Hay and the scanty furnishing of the yet uncleared breakfast-table, that he had been providentially guided to the right spot. "How's times with ye?"

"Not very good, Deac'n," replied Hay. "Nothin' much doin' in town."

"Money's awful sceerce," groaned the Deacon.

"Dreadful," responded George, devoutly thanking the Lord that he owed the Deacon nothing.

"Got much to do this winter?" asked the Deacon.

"Not by a d—day's job—not a single day," sorrowfully replied Hay.

The Deacon's pious ear had been shocked by the young man's imperfectly concealed profanity, and for an instant he thought of administering a rebuke, but the charms of prospective cheap labor lured the good man from the path of rectitude.

"I'm fixin' my cow-shed—might p'raps give ye a job on't. 'Spose ye'd do it cheap, seein' how dull ev'ry thin' is?"

The sad eyes of Mrs. Hay grew bright in an instant. Her husband's heart jumped up, but he knew to whom he was talking, so he said, as calmly as possible:

"Three dollars is reg'lar pay."

The Deacon immediately straightened up as if to go.

"Too much," said he; "I'd better hire a common lab'rer at a dollar 'n a half, an' boss him myself. It's only a cow-shed, ye know."

"Guess, though, ye won't want the nails druv no less p'ticler, will ye, Deac'n?" inquired Hay. "But I tell yer what I'll do—I'll throw off fifty cents a day."

"Two dollars ort to be enough, George," resumed the Deacon. "Carpenterin's pooty work, an' takes a sight of headpiece sometimes, but there's no intellec' required to work on a cow-shed. Say two dollars, an' come along."

The carpenter thought bitterly of what a little way the usual three dollars went, and of how much would have to be done with what he could get out of the cow-shed, but the idea of losing even that was too horrible to be endured, so he hastily replied:

"Two an' a quarter, an' I'm your man."

"Well," said the Deacon, "it's a powerful price to pay for work on a cow-shed, but I s'pose I mus' stan' it. Hurry up; thar's the mill-whistle blowin' seven."

Hay snatched his tools, kissed a couple of thankful tears, out of his wife's eyes, and was soon busy on the cow-shed, with the Deacon looking on.

"George," said the Deacon suddenly, causing the carpenter to stop his hammer in mid-air, "think it over agen, an' say two dollars."

Hay gave the good Deacon a withering glance, and for a few moments the force of suppressed profanity caused his hammer to bang with unusual vigor, while the owner of the cow-shed rubbed his hands in ecstasy at the industry of his employe.

The air was bracing, the Winter sun shone brilliantly, the Deacon's breakfast was digesting fairly, and his mind had not yet freed itself from the influences of the Sabbath. Besides, he had secured a good workman at a low price, and all these influences combined to put the Deacon in a pleasant frame of mind. He rambled through his mind for a text which would piously express his condition, and texts brought back Sunday, and Sunday reminded him of the meeting of the night before. And here was one of those very men before him—a good man in many respects, though he was higher-priced than he should be. How was the cause of the Master to be prospered if His servants made no effort? Then there came to the Deacon's mind the passage, "—he which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins." What particular sins of his own needed hiding the Deacon did not find it convenient to remember just then, but he meekly admitted to himself and the Lord that he had them, in a general way. Then, with that directness and grace which were characteristic of him, the Deacon solemnly said:

"George, what is to be the sinner's doom?"

"I dunno," replied George, his wrath still warm; "'pears to me you've left that bizness till pretty late in life, Deac'n!"

"Don't trifle with sacrid subjec's, George," said the Deacon, still very solemn, and with a suspicion of annoyance in his voice. "The wicked shall be cast into hell, with—"

"They can't kerry their cow-sheds with 'em, neither," interrupted George, consolingly.

"Come, George," said the good Deacon, in an appealing tone, "remember the apostle says, 'Suffer the word of exhortation.'"

"'Xcuse me, Deac'n, but one sufferin' at a time; I ain't through sufferin' at bein' beaten down yet. How about deac'ns not being 'given to filthy lucre?'"

The good Deacon was pained, and he was almost out of patience with the apostle for writing things which came so handy to the lips of the unregenerate. He commenced an industrious search for a text which should completely annihilate the impious carpenter, when that individual interrupted him with:

"Out with it, Deac'n—ye had a meetin' las' night to see what was to be done with the impenitent. I was there—that is, I sot on a stool jest outside the door, an' I heerd all 'twas said. Ye didn't agree on nothin'—mebbe ye'v fixed it up sence. Any how, ye'v sot me down fur one of the impenitent, an' yer goin' fur me. Well—"

"Go on nailin'," interrupted the economical Deacon, a little testily; "the noise don't disturb me; I can hear ye."

"Well, what way am I so much wickeder 'n you be—you an' t'other folks at the meetin'-house?" asked Hay.

"George, I never saw ye in God's house in my life," replied the Deacon.

"Well, s'pose ye hevn't—is God so small He can't be nowheres 'xcept in your little meetin'-house? How about His seein' folks in their closets?"

"George," said the Deacon, "ef yer a prayin' man, why don't ye jine yerself unto the Lord's people?"

"Why? 'Cos the Lord's people, as you call 'em, don't want me. S'pose I was to come to the meetin'-house in these clothes—the only ones I've got—d'ye s'pose any of the Lord's people 'd open a pew-door to me? An' spose my wife an' children, dressed no better 'n I be, but as good 's I can afford, was with me, how d'ye s'pose I'd feel?"

"Pride goeth before a fall, an' a haughty sperit before," groaned the Deacon, when the carpenter again interrupted.

"I'd feel as ef the people of God was a gang of insultin' hypocrites, an' ez ef I didn't ever want to see 'em again. Ef that kind o' pride's sinful, the devil's a saint. Ef there's any thin' wrong about a man's feelin' so about himself and them God give him, God's to blame for it himself; but seein' it's the same feelin' that makes folks keep 'emselves strait in all other matters, I'll keep on thinkin' it's right."

"But the preveleges of the Gospel, George," remonstrated the Deacon.

"Don't you s'pose I know what they're wuth?" continued the carpenter. "Haven't I hung around in front of the meetin'-house Summer nights, when the winders was open, jest to listen to the singin' and what else I could hear? Hezn't my wife ben with me there many a time, and hevn't both of us prayed an' groaned an' cried in our hearts, not only 'cos we couldn't join in it all ourselves, but 'cos we couldn't send the children either, without their learnin' to hate religion 'fore they fairly know'd what 'twas? Haven't I sneaked in to the vestibule Winter nights, an' sot just where I did last night, an' heard what I'd 'a liked my wife and children to hear, an' prayed for the time to come when the self-app'inted elect shouldn't offend the little ones? An' after sittin' there last night, an' comin' home and tellin' my wife how folks was concerned about us, an' our rejoicin' together in the hope that some day our children could hev the chances we're shut out of now, who should come along this mornin' but one of those same holy people, and Jewed me down on pay that the Lord knows is hard enough to live on."

The Deacon had a heart, and he knew the nature of self-respect as well as men generally. His mind ran entirely outside of texts for a few minutes, and then, with a sigh for the probable expense, he remarked:

"Reckon Flite's notion was right, after all—ther' ort to be a workin'-man's chapel."



"Ort?" responded Hay; "who d'ye s'pose'd go to it? Nobody? Ye can rent us second-class houses, an' sell us second-hand clothin', and the cheapest cuts o' meat, but when it comes to cheap religion—nobody knows its value better 'n we do. We don't want to go into yer parlors on carpets and furniture we don't know how to use, an' we don't expect to be asked into society where our talk an' manners might make some better eddicated people laugh. But when it comes to religion—God knows nobody needs an' deserves the very best article more 'n we do."

The Deacon was a reasonable man, and being old, was beginning to try to look fairly at matters upon which he expected soon to be very thoroughly examined. The indignant protest of the carpenter had, he feared, a great deal of reason, and yet—God's people deserved to hold their position, if, as usual, the argument ended where it began. So he asked, rather triumphantly:

"What is to be done, then?"

"Reform God's people themselves," replied the carpenter, to the horror of the pious old man. "When the right hand of fellowship is reached out to the front, instead of stuck behind the back when a poor man comes along, there'll be plenty that'll be glad to take it. Reform yer own people, Deac'n. 'Fore yer pick out of our eyes the motes we'll be glad enough to get rid of, ye can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of yer own."

Soldiers of the Cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the Deacon, and he prudently withdrew.

Reform God's people themselves! The Deacon was too old a boy to tell tales out of school, but he knew well enough there was room for reform. Of course there was—weren't we all poor sinners?—when we would do good wasn't evil ever present with us?—what business had other sinners to complain, when they weren't, at least, any better? Besides, suppose he were to try to reform the ways of Brother Graves and Deacon Struggs and others he had in his mind—would they rest until they had attempted to reform him? And who was to know just what quantity and quality of reform was necessary? "Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines." The matter was too great for his comprehension, so he obeyed the injunction, "Commit thy way unto the Lord."

But the Lord relegated the entire matter to the Deacon. Hay did a full day's work, the Deacon made a neat little sum by recovering on an old judgment he had bought for a mere song, and the Deacon's red cow made an addition to the family in the calf-pen; yet the Deacon was far from comfortable. The idea that certain people must stay away from God's house until God's people were reformed, seemed to the Deacon's really human heart something terrible. If they would be so proud—and yet, people who would stand outside the meeting-house and listen, and pray and weep because their children were as badly off as they, could scarcely be very proud. He knew there couldn't be many such, else this out-of-door congregation would be noticed—there certainly wasn't a full congregation of modest mechanics in the vestibule of which Hay spoke, and yet, who could tell how many more were anxious and troubled on the subject of their eternal welfare.

What a pity it was that those working-men who wished to repair to the sanctuary could not have steady work and full pay! If he had only known all this early in the morning, he did not know but he might have hired him at three dollars; though, really, was a man to blame for doing his best in the labor market? "Ye cannot serve God and mammon." Gracious! he could almost declare he heard the excited carpenter's voice delivering that text. What had brought that text into his head just now?—he had never thought of it before.

The Deacon rolled and tossed on his bed, and the subject of his conversation with the carpenter tormented him so he could not sleep. Of one thing he was certain, and that was that the reform of the Church at Pawkin Centre was not to be relied on in an extremity, and was not such hungering and thirsting after righteousness an extreme case?—had he ever really known many such! If Hay only had means, the problem would afford its own solution. The good Deacon solemnly declared to himself that if Hay could give good security, he (the Deacon) would try to lend him the money.

But even this (to the Deacon) extraordinary concession was unproductive of sleep. "He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord." There! he could hear that indignant carpenter again. What an unsatisfactory passage that was, to be sure! If it would only read the other way—it didn't seem a bit business-like the way it stood. And yet, as the Deacon questioned himself there in the dark, he was forced to admit that he had a very small balance—even of loans—to his credit in the hands of the Lord. He had never lent to the Lord except in his usual business manner—as small a loan as would be accepted, on as extensive collaterals as he could exact. Oh, why did people ever forsake the simple raiment of their forefathers, and robe themselves in garments grievous in price, and stumbling-blocks in the path of their fellow-men?

But sleep failed even to follow this pious reflection. Suppose—only suppose, of course—that he were to give—lend, that is—lend Hay money enough to dress his family fit for church—think what a terrible lot of money it would take! A common neat suit for a man would cost at least thirty dollars, an overcoat nearly twice as much; a suit cloak, and other necessities for his wife would amount to as much more, and the children—oh, the thing couldn't be done for less than two hundred and fifty dollars. Of course, it was entirely out of the question—he had only wondered what it would cost—that was all.

Still no sleep. He wished he hadn't spoken with Hay about his soul—next time he would mind his own business. He wished he hadn't employed Hay. He wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent had never taken place. "No man can come to me except the Father which sent me draw him"—he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted it at the meeting—it was no light matter to interfere with the Almighty's plans.

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." Hah! Could that carpenter be in the room, disarranging his train of thought with such—such—tantalizing texts! They had kept him awake, and at his time of life a restless night was a serious matter. Suppose—

Very early the next morning the village doctor, returning from a patient's bedside, met the Deacon with a face which suggested to him (the doctor was pious and imaginative) "Abraham on Mount Moriah." The village butcher, more practical, hailed the good man, and informed him he was in time for a fine steak, but the Deacon shook his head in agony, and passed on. He neared the carpenter's house, stopped, tottered, and looked over his shoulder as if intending to run; at length he made his way behind the house, where Hay was chopping firewood. The carpenter saw him and turned pale—he feared the Deacon had found cheaper labor, and had come to give him warning.

"George," said the Deacon, "I've been doin' a heap of thinkin' 'bout what we talked of yesterday. I've come to say that if you like I'll lend you three hundred dollars fur as long as ye'v a mind to, without note, security or int'rest; you to spend as much of it ez ye need to dress you an' yer hull fam'ly in Sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the Savin's Bank, at interest, to go on doin' the same with when necessary. An' all of ye to go to church when ye feel so disposed. An' ef nobody else's pew-door opens, yer allus welcome to mine. And may the Lord" the Deacon finished the sentence to himself—"have mercy on my soul." Then he said, aloud:

"That's all."

The carpenter, at the beginning of the Deacon's speech, had dropped his axe, to the imminent danger of one of his feet. As the Deacon continued, the carpenter dropped his head to one side, raised one eye-brow inquiringly, and awaited the conditions. But when the Deacon said "That's all," George Hay seized the Deacon's hard old hand, gave it a grasp which brought agonized tears to the eyes of its venerable owner, and exclaimed:

"Deacon, God's people are reformin'!"

The Deacon staggered a little—he had not thought of it in that light before.

"Deacon, that money'll do more good than all the prayin' ye ever done. 'Xcuse me—I must tell Mary," and the carpenter dashed into the house. Had Mrs. Hay respected the dramatic proprieties, she would have made the Deacon a neat speech; but the truth is, she regarded him from behind the window-blind, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; seeing which the Deacon abruptly started for home, making less use of his cane than he had done in any day for years.

It is grievous to relate, but truth is mighty—that within a fortnight the good Deacon repented of his generous action at least fifty times. He would die in the poor-house if he were so extravagant again. Three hundred dollars was more than the cow-shed—lumber, shingles, nails, labor and all—would cost. Suppose Hay should take the money and go West? Suppose he should take to drinking, and spend it all for liquor! One suspicion after another tortured the poor man until he grew thin and nervous. But on the second Sunday, having satisfied himself that Hay was in town, sober, the day before, that he had been to the city and brought back bundles, and that he (the Deacon) had seldom been in the street without meeting one of Hay's children with a paper of hooks and eyes or a spool of thread, the Deacon stationed himself in one of his own front windows, and brought his spectacles to bear on Hay's door, a little distance off. The first bell had rung, apparently, hours before, yet no one appeared—could it be that he had basely sneaked to the city at night and pawned everything? No—the door opened—there they came. It couldn't be—yes, it was—well, he never imagined Hay and his wife were so fine a-looking couple. They came nearer, and the Deacon, forgetting his cane, hobbled hurriedly to church, entered his pew, and left the door wide open. He waited long, it seemed to him, but they did not come. He looked around impatiently, and there, O, joy and wonder!—the president of the Pawkin Savings' Institution had invited the whole family into his pew! Just then the congregation rose to sing the hymn commencing:

"From all that dwell below the skies Let the Creator's praise arise";

and the Deacon, in his excitement, distanced the choir, and the organ, and the congregation, and almost brought the entire musical service to a standstill.

The Deacon had intended to watch closely for Hays' conversion, but something wonderful prevented—it was reported everywhere that the Deacon himself had been converted, and all who now saw the Deacon fully believed the report. He was even heard to say that as there seemed to be some doubt as to whether faith or works was the saving virtue, he intended thereafter to practice both. He no longer mentions the poor-house as his prospective dwelling, but is heard to say that in his Father's house there are many mansions, and that he is laying up his treasure in heaven as fast as possible, and hopes he may get it all on the way there before his heart is called for. At the post-office, the tin-shop and the rum-shop the Deacon's conversion is constantly discussed, and men of all degrees now express a belief in the mighty power of the Spirit from on high. Other moneyed men have been smitten and changed, and the pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church daily thanks the Lord for such a revival as he never heard of before.



JOE GATTER'S LIFE INSURANCE.

Good? He was the model boy of Bungfield. While his idle school-mates were flying kites and playing marbles, the prudent Joseph was trading Sunday-school tickets for strawberries and eggs, which he converted into currency of the republic. As he grew up, and his old school-mates purchased cravats and hair-oil at Squire Tackey's store, it was the industrious Joseph who stood behind the counter, wrapped up their purchases, and took their money. When the same boys stood on the street-corners and cast sheep's eyes at the girls, the business-like Joseph stood in the store-door and contemplated these same boys with eyes such as a hungry cat casts upon a brood of young birds who he expects to eat when they grow older. Joe never wasted any time at parties; he never wore fine clothing; he never drank nor smoked; in short, Joe was so industrious that by the time he reached his majority he had a thousand dollars in the bank, and not a solitary virtue in his heart.

For Joe's money good Squire Tackey had an earnest longing, and soon had it to his own credit; while the sign over the store-door read "Tackey & Gatter." Then the Squire wanted Joe's soul, too, and so earnest was he that Joe soon found it necessary to remonstrate with his partner.

"'Twont do, Squire," said he; "religion's all very well in its place, but when a man loses the sale of a dozen eggs, profit seven cents, because his partner is talking religion with him so hard that a customer gets tired of waiting and goes somewhere else, then religion's out of place."

"The human soul's of more cons'kence than many eggs, Joseph," argued the Squire.

"That's just it," replied Joe; "money don't hit the value of the soul any way, and there's no use trying to mix 'em. And while we're talking, don't you think we might be mixing some of the settlings of the molasses barrel with the brown sugar?—'twill make it weigh better."

The Squire sighed, but he could not help admitting that Joe was as good a partner as a man could want.

In one of Joe's leisure moments it struck him that if he were to die, nobody would lose a cent by the operation. The idea was too exasperating, and soon the local agents of noted insurance companies ceased to enjoy that tranquility which is characteristic of business men in the country. Within a fortnight two of the agents were arraigned before their respective churches for profane brawling, while Joe had squeezed certain agents into dividing commissions to the lowest unit of divisibility, and had several policies in the safe at the store.

The Squire, his partner, was agent for the Pantagonian Mutual, and endured his full share of the general agony Joe had caused. But when he had handed Joe a policy and receipt, and taken the money, and counted it twice, and seen to it carefully that all the bills were good, the good Squire took his revenge.

"Joseph," said he, "you ain't through with insurance yet—you need to insure your soul against risk in the next world, and there's only one Agent that does it."

The junior partner stretched himself on the counter and groaned. He knew the Squire was right—he had heard that same story from every minister he had ever heard. Joe was so agitated that he charged at twelve and a half cents some calico he had sold at fifteen.

Only one Agent! But the shrewd Joseph rejoiced to think that those who represented the Great Agent differed greatly in the conditions of the insurance, and that some made more favorable terms than others, and that if he could get the ministers thoroughly interested in him, he would have a good opportunity for comparing rates. The good men all wanted Joe, for he was a rising young man, and could, if the Spirit moved him, make handsome subscriptions to good purposes. So, in their zeal, they soon regarded each other with jealous eyes, and reduced their respective creeds to gossamer thinness. They agreed about grace being free, and Joe accepted that much promptly, as he did anything which could be had without price. But Joe was a practical man, and though he found fault with none of the doctrines talked at him, he yet hesitated to attach himself to any particular congregation. He finally ascertained that the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood's church had no debt, and that its contributions to missions and other religious purposes were very small, so Joe allowed himself to be gathered into the fine assortment of crooked sticks which the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood was reserving unto the day of burning.

Great was the rejoicing of the congregation at Joe's saving act, and sincere was the sorrow of the other churches, who knew their own creeds were less shaky. But in the saloon and on the street Joe's religious act was discussed exclusively on its merits, and the results were such as only special spiritual labor would remove. For no special change was noticeable in Joe; on Sunday he abjured the world, but on Monday he made things uncomfortable for the Widow Macnilty, whose husband had died in the debt of Tackey & Gatter. A customer bought some gingham, on Joe's assurance that the colors were fast, but the first washday failed to confirm Joe's statement. The proprietor of the stage line between Bungfield and Cleopas Valley traded horses with Joe, and was afterward heard mentioning his new property in language far more scriptural than proper.

Still, Joe was a church-member, and that was a patent of respectability. And as he gained years, and building lots, and horses, and commenced discounting notes, his respectability grew and waxed great in the minds of the practical people of Bungfield. Even good women, real mothers in Israel, could not help thinking, as they sorrowed over the sand in the bottoms of their coffee-cups, and grew wrathful at "runney" flour bought for "A 1 Superfine" of Tackey & Gatter, that Joe would make a valuable husband. So thought some of the ladies of Bungfield, and as young ladies who can endure the idea of such a man for perpetual partner can also signify their opinions, Joe began to comprehend that he was in active demand. He regarded the matter as he would a sudden demand for any commodity of trade, and by skillfully manipulating the market he was soon enabled to choose from a full supply.

Thenceforward Joe was as happy as a man of his nature could be. All his investments were paying well: the store was prosperous, he was successful in all his trading enterprises, he had purchased, at fearful shaves, scores of perfectly good notes, he realized on loans interest which would cause a usury law to shrivel and crack, his insurance policies brought him fair dividends, and his wife kept house with economy and thrift. But the church—the church seemed an unmitigated drag. Joe attended all the church meetings—determined to get the worth of the money he was compelled to contribute to the current expenses—he had himself appointed treasurer, so he could get the use of the church money; but the interest, even at the rates Joe generally obtained, did not balance the amount of his contribution.

Joe worried over the matter until he became very peevish, yet he came no nearer a business-like adjustment of receipts and expenditures. One day when his venerable partner presented him a certificate of dividend from the Pantagonian Mutual, Joe remarked:

"Never got any dividends on that other insurance you put me up to taking, partner—that 'gainst fire risks in the next world, you know. 'Twill be tough if there's any mistake—church does take a sight of money."

"Joseph," said the Squire, in a sorrowful tone, "I've always been afeard they didn't look enough into your evidences when they took you into that church. How can a man expect to escape on the day of wrath if he's all the time grumbling at the cost of his salvation? Mistake? If you don't know in your heart the truth of what you profess, there's mighty little hope for you, church or no church."



"Know in my heart!" cried Joe. "That's a pretty kind of security. Is that what I've been paying church dues for? Better have known it in my heart in the first place, and saved the money. What's the use of believing all these knotty points, if they don't make a sure thing for a man?"

"If your belief don't make you any better or happier, Joseph," rejoined the Squire, "you'd better look again and see if you've got a good hold of it; those that's got a clear title don't find their investment as slow in making returns, while those that find fault are generally the ones that's made a mistake."

Poor Joe! He thought he had settled this whole matter; but now, if his partner was right, he was worse off than if he hadn't begun. He believed in justification by faith; now, wasn't his faith strong—first class, he might say? To be sure of being safe, hadn't he believed everything that all the ministers had insisted upon as essential? And what was faith, if it wasn't believing? He would ask his partner; the old man had got him into this scrape—now he must see him through.

"Squire," said he, "isn't faith the same thing as believing?"

"Well," said the Squire, adjusting his glasses, and taking from the desk the little Testament upon which he administered oaths, "that depends on how you believe. Here's a verse on the subject: 'Thou believest in God; thou doest well; the devils also believe, and tremble.'"

Ugh! Joe shivered. He wasn't an aristocrat, but would one fancy such companionship as the Squire referred to?

"Here," said the Squire, turning the leaves, "is another passage bearin' on the subject. 'O, generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bring forth, therefore, fruits meet for repentance.'"

Vipers! Joe uncomfortably wondered who else the Squire was going to introduce into the brotherhood of the faith.

"Now, see what it says in another place," continued the Squire, "Not every one that saith unto Me Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven."

"Yes," said Joe, grateful for hearing of no more horrible believers, "but what is his will but believing on him? Don't the Bible say that they that believe shall be saved?"

"Joseph," said the Squire, "when you believed in my store, you put in your time and money there. When you believed in hoss-tradin' you devoted yourself to practicing it. When you believed life insurance was a good thing, you took out policies and paid for them, though you have complained of the Patagonian dividends. Now, if you do believe in God, what have you done to prove it?"

"I've paid over a hundred dollars a year church dues," said Joe, wrathfully, "not counting subscriptions to a bell and a new organ."

"That wasn't for God, Joseph," said the Squire; "'twas all for you. God never'll thank you for running an asylum for paupers fit to work. You'll find in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew a description of those that's going into the kingdom of heaven—they're the people that give food and clothing to the needy, and that visit the sick and prisoners, while those that don't do these things don't go in, to put it mildly. He don't say a word about belief there, Joseph; for He knows that giving away property don't happen till a man's belief is pretty strong."

Joe felt troubled. Could it really be that his eternal insurance was going to cost more money? Joe thought enviously of Colonel Bung, President of the Bungfield Railroad Co.—the Colonel didn't believe in anything; so he saved all his money, and Joe wished he had some of the Colonel's courage.

Joe's meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Sam Ottrey, a poor fellow who owed Joe some money. Joe had lent Sam a hundred dollars, discounted ten per cent, for ninety days, and secured by a chattel mortgage on Sam's horse and wagon. But Sam had been sick during most of the ninety days, and when he went to Joe to beg a few days of grace, that exemplary business man insisted upon immediate payment.

It was easy to see by Sam's hopeless eye and strained features that he had not come to pay—he was staring ruin in the face, and felt as uncomfortable as if the amount were millions instead of a horse and wagon, his only means of support. As for Joe, he had got that hundred dollars and horse and wagon mixed up in the oddest way with what he and his partner had been talking about. It was utterly unbusiness-like—he knew it—he tried to make business business, and religion religion, but, try as he might, he could not succeed. Joe thought briskly; he determined to try an experiment.

"Sam," said he, "got the money?"

"No," Sam replied; "luck's agin me—I've got to stand it, I suppose."

"Sam," said Joe, "I'll give you all the time you need, at legal interest."

Sam was not such a young man as sentimental people would select to try good deeds upon. But he was human, and loved his wife and children, and the sudden relief he felt caused him to look at Joe in a manner which made Joe find a couple of entire strangers in his own eyes. He hurried into the little office, and when his partner looked up inquiringly, Joe replied:

"I've got a dividend, Squire—one of those we were talking about."

"How's that?" asked the old man, while Joe commenced writing rapidly.

"I'll show you," said Joe, handing the Squire the paper on which he has just put in writing his promise to Sam.

"Joseph," said the Squire, after reading the paper several times, to assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, "it beats the widow's mites; she gave the Lord all she had, but you've given Him more than you ever had in all your life until to-day."

Joe handed Sam the paper, and it was to the teamster the strongest evidence of Christianity he had ever seen in Bungfield. He had known of some hard cases turning from the saloon and joining the church, but none of these things were so wonderful as this action of Joe Gatter's. Sam told the story, in strict confidence, to each of his friends, and the good seed was thus sown in soil that it had never reached before.

It would be pleasant to relate that Joe forthwith ceased shaving notes and selling antiquated grease for butter, and that he devoted the rest of his days and money to good deeds, but it wouldn't be true. Those of our readers who have always consistently acted according to their own light and knowledge are, of course, entitled to throw stones at Joe Gatter; but most of us know to our sorrow why he didn't always act according to the good promptings he received. Our only remaining duty is to say that when, thereafter, Joe's dividends came seldom, he knew who to blame.



THE TEMPERANCE MEETING AT BACKLEY.

Loud and long rang the single church-bell at Backley, but its industry was entirely unnecessary, for the single church at Backley was already full from the altar to the doors, and the window-sills and altar-steps were crowded with children. The Backleyites had been before to the regular yearly temperance meetings, and knew too well the relative merits of sitting and standing to wait until called by the bell. Of course no one could afford to be absent, for entertainments were entirely infrequent at Backley; the populace was too small to support a course of lectures, and too moral to give any encouragement to circuses and minstrel troupes, but a temperance meeting was both moral and cheap, and the children might all be taken without extra cost.

For months all the young men and maidens at Backley had been practising the choruses of the songs which the Temperance Glee Club at a neighboring town was to sing at the meeting. For weeks had large posters, printed in the reddest of ink, announced to the surrounding country that the parent society would send to Backley, for this especial occasion, one of its most brilliant orators, and although the pastor made the statement (in the smallest possible type) that at the close of the entertainment a collection would be taken to defray expenses of the lecturer, the sorrowing ones took comfort in the fact that certain fractional currency represented but a small amount of money. The bell ceased ringing, and the crowd at the door attempted to squeeze into the aisles; the Backley Cornet Quartette played a stirring air; Squire Breet called the meeting to order, and was himself elected permanent Chairman; the Reverend Mr. Genial prayed earnestly that intemperance might cease to reign; the Glee Club sang several songs, with rousing choruses; a pretended drunkard and a cold water advocate (both pupils of the Backley High School), delivered a dialogue in which the pretended drunkard was handled severely; a tableau of "The Drunkard's Home" was given; and then the parent society's brilliant orator took the platform.

The orator was certainly very well informed, logical and convincing, besides being quite witty. He proved to the satisfaction of all present that alcohol was not nutritious; that it awakened a general and unhealthy physical excitement; and that it hardened the tissues of the brain. He proved by reports of analyses, that adulteration, and with harmful materials, was largely practiced. He quoted from reports of police, prison and almshouse authorities, to prove his statement that alcohol made most of our criminals. He unrolled a formidable array of statistics, and showed how many loaves of bread could be bought with the money expended in the United States for intoxicating liquors; how many comfortable houses the same money would build; how many schools it would support; and how soon it would pay the National Debt.

Then he drew a moving picture of the sorrow of the drunkard's family and the awfulness of the drunkard's death, and sat down amid a perfect thunder of applause.

The faithful beamed upon each other with glowing and expressive countenances; the Cornet Quartette played "Don't you go, Tommy"; the smallest young lady sang "Father, dear father, come Home with me Now"; and then Squire Breet, the Chairman, announced that the meeting was open for remarks.

A derisive laugh from some of the half-grown boys, and a titter from some of the misses, attracted the attention of the audience, and looking round they saw Joe Digg standing up in a pew near the door.

"Put him out!" "It's a shame!" "Disgraceful!" were some of the cries which were heard in the room.

"Mr. Digg is a citizen of Backley," said the Chairman, rapping vigorously to call the audience to order, "and though not a member of the Association, he is entitled to a hearing."

"Thank you, Mr. Chairman," said Joe Digg, when quiet was restored; "your words are the first respectful ones I've ever heard in Backley, an' I do assure you I appreciate 'em. But I want the audience to understand I ain't drunk—I haven't had a cent for two days, an' nobody's treated me."

By this time the audience was very quiet, but in a delicious fever of excitement. A drunkard speaking right out in a temperance meeting!—they had never heard of such a thing in their lives. Verily, Backley was going to add one to the roll of modest villages made famous by unusual occurrences.

"I 'spose, Mr. Chairman," continued Joe Digg, "that the pint of temp'rance meetin's is to stop drunkenness, an' as I'm about the only fully developed drunkard in town, I'm most likely to know what this meetin's 'mounted to."

Squire Breet inclined his head slightly, as if to admit the correctness of Joe Digg's position.

"I believe ev'ry word the gentleman has said," continued the drunkard, "and"—here he paused long enough to let an excitable member exclaim "Bless the Lord!" and burst into tears—"and he could have put it all a good deal stronger without stretchin' the truth. An' the sorrer of a drunkard's home can be talked about 'till the Dictionary runs dry, an' then ye don't know nothin' 'bout it. But hain't none of ye ever laughed 'bout lockin' the stable door after the hoss is stolen? That's just what this temp'rance meetin' an' all the others comes to."

A general and rather indignant murmur of dissent ran through the audience.

"Ye don't believe it," continued Joe Digg, "but I've been a drunkard, an' I'm one yet, an' ye all got sense enough to understan' that I ort to know best about it."

"Will the gentleman have the kindness to explain?" asked the lecturer.

"I'm a comin' to it, sir, ef my head'll see me through," replied the drunkard. "You folks all b'leeve that its lovin' liquor that makes men drink it; now, 'taint no sech thing. I never had a chance to taste fancy drinks, but I know that every kind of liquor I ever got hold of was more like medicine than anything nice."

"Then what do they drink for?" demanded the excitable member.

"I'll tell you," said Joe, "if you'll have a little patience. I have to do it in my own way, for I ain't used to public speakin'. You all know who I am. My father was a church-member, an' so was mother. Father done day's work, fur a dollar'n a quarter a day. How much firewood an' clothes an' food d'ye suppose that money could pay for? We had to eat what come cheapest, an' when some of the women here wuz a sittin' comfortable o' nights, a knittin' an' sewin' an' readin', mother wuz hangin' aroun' the butchershop, tryin' to beat the butcher down on the scraps that wasn't good enough for you folks. Soon as we young 'uns was big enough to do anything we wuz put to work. I've worked for men in this room twelve an' fourteen hours a day. I don't blame 'em—they didn't mean nothin' out of the way—they worked just as long 'emselves, an' so did their boys. But they allers had somethin' inside to keep 'em up, an' I didn't. Does anybody wonder that when I harvested with some men that kep' liquor in the field, an' found how it helped me along, that I took it, an' thought 'twas a reg'lar God's-blessin'? An' when I foun' 'twas a-hurtin' me, how was I to go to work an' giv' it up, when it stood me instead of the eatables I didn't have, an' never had, neither?"

"You should hev prayed," cried old Deacon Towser, springing to his feet; "prayed long an' earnest."



"Deacon," said Joe Digg, "I've heerd of your dyspepsy for nigh on to twenty year; did prayin' ever comfort your stomach?"

The whole audience indulged in a profane laugh, and the good deacon was suddenly hauled down by his wife. The drunkard continued:

"There's lots of jest sech folks, here in Backley, an' ev'ry where's else—people that don't get half fed, an' do get worked half to death. Nobody means to 'buse 'em, but they do hev a hard time of it, an' whisky's the best friend they've got."

"I work my men from sunrise to sunset in summer, myself," said Deacon Towser, jumping up again, "an' I'm the first man in the field, an' the last man to quit. But I don't drink no liquor, an' my boys don't, neither."

"But ye don't start in the mornin' with hungry little faces a hauntin' ye—ye don't take the dry crusts to the field for yer own dinner, an' leave the meat an' butter at home for the wife an' young 'uns. An' ye go home without bein' afeard to see a half-fed wife draggin' herself aroun' among a lot of puny young 'uns that don't know what's the matter with 'em. Jesus Christ hissef broke down when it come to the cross, deac'n, an' poor human bein's sometimes reaches a pint where they can't stan' no more, an' when its wife an' children that brings it on, it gits a man awful."

"The gentleman is right, I have no doubt," said the Chairman, "so far as a limited class is concerned, but of course no such line of argument applies to the majority of cases. There are plenty of well-fed, healthy, and lazy young men hanging about the tavern in this very village."

"I know it," said Joe Digg, "an' I want to talk about them too. I don't wan't to take up all the time of this meetin', but you'll all 'low I know more 'bout that tavern than any body else does. Ther' is lots of young men a hanging aroun' it, an' why—'cos it's made pleasant for 'em, an' it's the only place in town that is. I've been a faithful attendant at that tavern for nigh onto twenty year, an' I never knowed a hanger-on there that had a comfortable home of his own. Some of them that don't hev to go to bed hungry hev scoldin' or squabblin' parents, an' they can't go a visitin' an' hear fine music, an' see nice things of every sort to take their minds off, as some young men in this meetin' house can. But the tavern is allus comfortable, an' ther's generally somebody to sing a song and tell a joke, an' they commence goin' ther' more fur a pleasant time than for a drink, at fust. Ther's lots of likely boys goin' there that I wish to God 'd stay away, an' I've often felt like tellin' 'em so, but what's the use? Where are they to go to?"

"They ort to flee from even the appearance of evil," said Deacon Towser.

"But where be they to flee to, Deac'n?" persisted Joe Digg; "would you like 'em to come a visitin' to your house?"

"They can come to the church meetings," replied the Deacon; "there's two in the week, besides Sundays, an' some of 'em's precious seasons—all of 'em's an improvement on the wicked tavern."

"'Ligion don't taste no better'n whiskey, tell you get used to it," said the drunkard, horrifying all the orthodox people at Backley, "an' taint made half so invitin'. 'Taint long ago I heerd ye tellin' another deacon that the church-members ort to be 'shamed of 'emselves, 'cos sca'cely any of 'em come to the week-evenin' meetin's, so ye can't blame the boys at the tavern."

"Does the gentleman mean to convey the idea that all drunkards become so from justifying causes?" asked the lecturer.

"No, sir," replied Joe Digg, "but I do mean to say that after you leave out them that takes liquor to help 'em do a full day's work, an' them that commence drinkin' 'cos they re at the tavern, an' ain't got no where's else to go, you've made a mighty big hole in the crowd of drinkin'-men—bigger'n temperance meetins' ever begin to make yit"

"But how are they to be 'left out'?" asked the lecturer.

"By temp'rance folks doin' somethin' beside talkin'," replied the drunkard. "For twenty year I've been lectured and scolded, an' some good men's come to me with tears in their eyes, and put their arms 'roun' my neck, an' begged me to stop drinkin'. An' I've wanted to, an' tried to, but when all the encouragement a man gits is in words, an' no matter how he commenced drinkin', now ev'ry bone an' muscle in him is a beggin' fur drink ez soon as he leaves off, an' his mind's dull, an' he ain't fit fur much, an' needs takin' care of as p'tic'ler ez a mighty sick man, talk's jist as good ez wasted. Ther's been times when ef I'd been ahead on flour an' meat an' sich, I could a' stopped drinkin', but when a man's hungry, an' ragged, an' weak, and half-crazy, knowin' how his family's fixed an he can't do nothin' fur 'em, an' then don't get nothin' but words to reform on, he'll go back to the tavern ev'ry time, an' he'll drink till he's comfortable an' till he forgits. I want the people here, one an' all, to understand that though I'm past helpin' now, ther's been fifty times in the last twenty year when I might hed been stopped short, ef any body'd been sensible enough and good-hearted enough to give me a lift."

Joe Digg sat down, and there was a long pause. The Chairman whispered to the leader of the Glee Club, and the club sang a song, but somehow it failed to awaken the usual enthusiasm. After the singing had ended, the Chairman himself took the floor and moved the appointment of a permanent committee to look after the intemperate, and to collect funds when the use of money seemed necessary, and the village doctor created a sensation by moving that Mr. Joe Digg should be a member of the committee. Deacon Towser, who was the richest man in the village, and who dreaded subscription papers, started an insidious opposition by eloquently vaunting the value of earnest prayer and of determined will, in such cases, but the new member of the committee (though manifestly out of order) outmanoeuvred the Deacon by accepting both amendments, and remarking that in a hard fight folks would take all the help they could get.

Somehow, as soon as the new committee—determining to open a place of entertainment in opposition to the tavern, and furnish it pleasantly, and make it an attractive gathering-place for young men—asked for contributions to enable them to do it, the temperance excitement at Backley abated marvelously. But Squire Breet, and the doctor, and several other enterprising men, took the entire burden on their own shoulders—or pockets—and Joe Digg was as useful as a reformed thief to a police department. For the doctor, whose professional education had left him a large portion of his natural common-sense in working order, took a practical interest in the old drunkard's case, and others of the committee looked to the necessities of his family, and it came to pass that Joe was one of the earliest of the reformers. Men still go to the tavern at Backley, but as, even when the twelve spake with inspired tongues, some people remained impenitent, the temperance men at Backley feel that they have great cause for encouragement, and that they have, at least, accomplished more within a few months than did all the temperance meetings ever held in their village.



JUDE.

Gopher Hill had determined that it could not endure Jude any longer.

The inhabitants of Gopher Hill possessed an unusual amount of kindness and long-suffering, as was proved by the fact that Chinamen were allowed to work all abandoned claims at the Hill. Had further proof been necessary, it would have been afforded by the existence of a church directly beside the saloon, although the frequenters of the sacred edifice had often, during week-evening meetings, annoyed convivial souls in the saloon by requesting them to be less noisy.

But Jude was too much for Gopher Hill. No one molested him when he first appeared, but each citizen entered a mental protest within his own individual consciousness; for Jude had a bad reputation in most of the settlements along Spanish Creek.

It was not that he had killed his man, and stolen several horses and mules, and got himself into a state of most disorderly inebriation, for, in the opinion of many Gopher Hillites, these actions might have been the visible results of certain virtuous conditions of mind.

But Jude had, after killing a man, spent the victim's money; he had stolen from men who had befriended him; he had jumped claims; he had denied his score at the storekeeper's; he had lied on all possible occasions; and had gambled away money which had been confided to him in trust.

One mining camp after another had become too hot for him; but he never adopted a new set of principles when he staked a new claim, so his stay in new localities was never of sufficient length to establish the fact of legal residence. His name seemed to be a respectable cognomen of Scriptural extraction, but it was really a contraction of a name which, while equally Scriptural and far more famous, was decidedly unpopular—the name of Judas Iscariot.

The whole name had been originally bestowed upon Jude, in recognition of his success in swindling a mining partner; but, with an acuteness of perception worthy of emulation, the miners determined that the length of the appellation detracted from its force, so they shortened it to Jude.

As a few of the more enterprising citizens of Gopher Hill were one morning discussing the desirableness of getting rid of Jude, and wondering how best to effect such a result, they received important foreign aid.

A man rode up to the saloon, dismounted, and tacked on the wall a poster offering one thousand dollars reward for the apprehension of a certain person who had committed an atrocious murder a month before at Duck Run.

The names and aliases of the guilty person were unfamiliar to those who gathered about the poster, but the description of the murderer's appearance was so suggestive, that Squire Bogern, one of the bystanders, found Jude, and requested him to read the poster.

"Well, 'twasn't me done it," sulkily growled the namesake of the apostolic treasurer.

"Ther' hain't nobody in Gopher that 'ud take a feller up fur a reward," replied the squire, studiously oblivious of Jude's denial; "but it's a nice mornin' fur a walk. Ye can't miss the trail an' git lost, ye know. An', seein' yer hevn't staked any claim, an' so hain't got any to dispose of, mebbe yer could git, inside of five minutes."

Jude was accustomed to "notices to quit," and was able to extract their import from any verbiage whatever, so he drank by and to himself, and immediately sauntered out of town, with an air of bravado in his carriage, and a very lonesome look in his face.

Down the trail he tramped, past claims whose occupants knew him well enough, but who, just as he passed, found some excuse for looking the other way.

He passed through one camp after another, and discovered (for he stopped at each saloon) that the man on horseback had preceded him, and that there seemed a wonderful unanimity of opinion as to the identity of the man who was wanted.

Finally, after passing through several of the small camps, which were dotted along the trail, a mile or two apart, Jude flung himself on the ground under a clump of azaleas, with the air of a man whose temper had been somewhat ruffled.

"I wonder," he remarked, after a discursive, fitful, but very spicy preface of ten minutes' duration, "why they couldn't find somethin' I hed done, instead of tuckin' some other feller's job on me? I hev had difficulties, but this here one's just one more than I knows on. Like 'nuff some galoot'll be mean 'nuff to try to git that thousand. I'd try it myself, ef I wuz only somebody else. Wonder why I can't be decent, like other fellers. 'Twon't pay to waste time thinkin' 'bout that, though, fur I'll hev to make a livin' somehow."

Jude indulged in a long sigh, perhaps a penitential one, and drew from his pocket a well-filled flask, which he had purchased at the last saloon he had passed.

As he extracted it, there came also from his pocket a copy of the poster, which he had abstracted from a tree en route.

"Thar 'tis again!" he exclaimed, angrily. "Can't be satisfied showin' itself ev'rywhar, but must come out of my pocket without bein' axed. Let's see, p'r'aps it don't mean me, after all—'One eye gone, broken nose, scar on right cheek, powder-marks on left, stumpy beard, sallow complexion, hangdog look.' I'd give a thousand ef I had it to git the feller that writ that; an' yit it means me, an' no dodgin'. Lord, Lord! what 'ud the old woman say ef she wuz to see me nowadays?"

He looked intently at the flask for a moment or two, as if expecting an answer therefrom, then he extracted the cork, and took a generous drink. But even the liquor failed to help him to a more cheerful view of the situation, for he continued:

"Nobody knows me—nobody sez, 'Hello!'—nobody axes me to name my bitters—nobody even cusses me. They let me stake a claim, but nobody offers to lend me a pick or a shovel, an' nobody ever comes to the shanty to spend the evenin', 'less it's a greenhorn. Curse 'em all! I'll make some of 'em bleed fur it. I'll git their dust, an' go back East; ther's plenty of folks thar that'll be glad to see me, ef I've got the dust. An' mebbe 'twould comfort the old woman some, after all the trouble I've made her. Offer rewards fur me, do they? I'll give 'em some reason to do it. I hain't afeard of the hull State of Californy, an'—Good Lord! what's that?"

The gentleman who was not afraid of the whole State of California sprang hastily to his feet, turned very pale, and felt for his revolver, for he heard rapid footsteps approaching by a little path in the bushes.

But though the footsteps seemed to come nearer, and very rapidly, he slowly took his hand from his pistol, and changed his scared look for a puzzled one.

"Cryin'! Reckon I ain't in danger from anybody that's bellerin'; but it's the fust time I've heerd that kind of a noise in these parts. Must be a woman. Sounds like what I used to hear to home when I got on a tear; 'tis a woman!"

As he concluded, there emerged from the path a woman, who was neither very young nor very pretty, but her face was full of pain, and her eyes full of tears, which signs of sorrow were augmented by a considerable scare, as she suddenly found herself face to face with the unhandsome Jude.

"Don't be afeard of me, marm," said Jude, as the woman retreated a step or two. "I'm durned sorry for yer, whatever's the matter. I've got a wife to home, an' it makes me so sorry to hear her cry, that I get blind drunk ez quick ez I ken."

This tender statement seemed to reassure the woman, for she looked inquiringly at Jude, and asked:

"Have ye seen a man and woman go 'long with a young one?

"Nary," replied Jude. "Young one lost?"

"Yes!" exclaimed the woman, commencing to cry again; "an' a husban', too. I don't care much for him, for he's a brute, but Johnny—blessed little Johnny—oh, oh!"

And the poor woman sobbed pitifully.

Jude looked uneasy, and remembering his antidote for domestic tears, extracted the bottle again. He slowly put it back untasted, however, and exclaimed:

"What does he look like, marm?—the husband I mean. I never wanted an excuse to put a hole through a feller ez bad ez I do this mornin'!"

"Don't—don't hurt him, for God's sake!" cried the woman. "He ain't a good husband—he's run off with another woman, but—but he's Johnny's father. Yet, if you could get Johnny back—he's the only comfort I ever had in the world, the dear little fellow—oh, dear me!"

And again she sobbed as if her heart was broken.

"Tell us 'bout 'em. Whar hev they gone to? what do they luk like? Mebbe I ken git him fur yer," said Jude, looking as if inclined to beat a retreat, or do anything to get away from the sound of the woman's crying.



"Get him—get Johnny?" cried the woman, falling on her knees, and seizing Jude's hand. "I can't give you anything for doin' it, but I'll pray for you, as long as I've got breath, that God may reward you!"

"I reckon," said Jude, as he awkwardly disengaged his hand, "that prayin' is what'll do me more good than anythin' else jest now. Big feller is yer husband? An' got any idee whar he is?"

"He is a big man," replied the woman, "and he goes by the name of Marksey in these parts; and you'll find him at the Widow Beckel's, across the creek. Kill her if you like—I hope somebody will. But Johnny—Johnny has got the loveliest brown eyes, and the sweetest mouth that was ever made, and—"

"Reckon I'll judge fur myself," interrupted Jude, starting off toward the creek, and followed by the woman. "I know whar Wider Beckel's is, an'—an' I've done enough stealin', I guess, to be able to grab a little boy without gittin' ketched. Spanish Crick's purty deep along here, an' the current runs heavy, but—"

The remainder of Jude's sentence was left unspoken, for just then he stepped into the creek, and the chill of the snow-fed stream caused him to hold his breath.

"Remember you aint to hurt him!" screamed the woman; "nor her, neither—God forgive me. But bring Johnny—bring Johnny, and God be with you."

The woman stood with clasped hands watching Jude until he reached the opposite bank, shook himself, and disappeared, and then she leaned against a tree and trembled and cried until she was startled by hearing some one say:

"Beg pardon, madame, but have you seen any one pass?"

The woman raised her head, and saw a respectable, severe looking man, in clothing rather neater than was common along Spanish Creek.

"Only one," she replied, "and he's the best man livin'. He's gone to get Johnny—he won't be gone long."

"Your husband, ma'am?"

"'Oh, no, sir; I never saw him before."

"One eye gone; broken nose; scar on right cheek; powder-marks on left—"

"Yes, sir, that's the man," said the wondering woman.

"Perhaps you may not have seen this?" said the man handing her one of the posters describing Jude.

Then he uttered a shrill whistle.

The woman read the paper through, and cried:

"It's somebody else—it must be—no murderer would be so kind to a poor, friendless woman. Oh, God, have I betrayed him? Don't take him, sir—it must be somebody else. I wish I had money—I would pay you more than the reward, just to go away and let him alone."

"Madame," replied the man, beckoning to two men who were approaching, "I could not accept it; nor will I accept the reward. It is the price of blood. But I am a minister of the gospel, ma'am, and in this godless generation it is my duty to see that the outraged dignity of the law is vindicated. My associates, I regret to say, are actuated by different motives."

"You just bet high on that!" exclaimed one of the two men who had approached, a low-browed, bestial ruffian. "Half a' thousan' 's more'n I could pan out in a fortnight, no matter how good luck I had. Parson he is a fool, but we, hain't no right to grumble 'bout it, seein' we git his share—hey, Parleyvoo?"

"You speak truly, Mike," replied his companion, a rather handsome looking Frenchman, of middle age. "And yet Jean Glorieaux likes not the labor. Were it not that he had lost his last ounce at monte, and had the fever for play still in his blood, not one sou would he earn in such ungentle a manner."

"God's worst curses on all of you!" cried the woman, with an energy which inspired her plain face and form with a terrible dignity and power, "if you lay a hand on a man who is the only friend a poor woman has ever found in the world!"

Glorieaux shuddered, and Mike receded a step or two: but the ex-minister maintained the most perfect composure, and exclaimed:

"Poor fools! It is written, 'The curse, causeless, shall not fall.' And yet, madame, I assure you that I most tenderly sympathize with you in your misfortunes, whatever they may be."

"Then let him alone!" cried the woman. "My only child has been stolen away from me—dear little Johnny—and the man offered to go get him. And you've made me betray him. Oh, God curse you all!"

"Madame," replied the still imperturbable parson, "the crime of blood-guiltiness cannot be imputed to you, for you did not know what you were doing."

The woman leaned against a tree, and waited until Glorieaux declared to the parson he would abandon the chase.

"It is useless," said he, striking a dramatic attitude, and pointing to the woman, "for her tears have quenched the fiery fever in the blood of Glorieaux."

"Then I'll git the hull thousand," growled Mike, "an' I'll need it, too, if I've got to stand this sort of thing much longer."

A confused sound of voices on the other side of the creek attracted the attention of the men, and caused the woman to raise her head. A moment later Jude appeared, with a child in his arms, and plunged into the water.

"Now we'll have him!" cried the parson; "and you, madame, will have your child. Be ready to chase him, men, if he attempts to run when he gets ashore."

"Go back! go back!" screamed the woman. "They are after you, these men. Try to—"

The law-abiding parson placed his hand over the woman's mouth, but found himself promptly flying backward through space, while Mike roared:

"Touch a woman, will yer? No thousand dollars nor any other money, 'll hire me to travel with such a scoundrel. Catch him yerself, if yer want ter,"

"But if you do," said Glorieaux, politely, as he drew his revolver, "it will be necessary for Glorieaux to slay the Lord's anointed."

"Follered, by thunder!" said Mike.

It was true. During the few seconds which had been consumed in conversation, Jude got well into the creek. He had not seemed to hear the woman's warning; but now a greater danger threatened him, for on the opposite bank of the creek there appeared a man, who commenced firing at Jude's head and the small portion of his shoulders that was visible.

"The monster. Oh, the wretch!" screamed the woman. "He may hit Johnny, his only son! Oh, God have mercy on me, and save my child!"

A shot immediately behind her followed the woman's prayer, and Glorieaux exclaimed, pointing to the opposite bank, where Marksey was staggering and falling:

"Glorieaux gathered from your words that a divorce would be acceptable, madame. Behold, you have it!"

"Pity nobody didn't think of it sooner," observed Mike, shading his eyes as he stared intently at Jude, "for there's a red streak in the water right behind him."

The woman was already standing at the water's edge, with hands clasped in an agony of terror and anxiety. The three men hastened to join her.

"Wish I could swim," said Mike, "for he's gettin' weak, an' needs help."

The parson sprang into the water, and, in spite of the chill and the swift current, he was soon by Jude's side.

"Take the young un," gasped Jude, "for I'm a goner."

"Put your hand on my shoulder," said the parson. "I can get you both ashore."

'"Tain't no use," said Jude, feebly; "corpses don't count for much in Californy."

"But your immortal part," remonstrated the parson, trying to seize Jude by the hand which held little Johnny.

"God hev mercy on it!" whispered the dying man; "it's the fust time He ever had an excuse to do it."

Strong man and expert swimmer as the ex-minister was, he was compelled to relinquish his hold of the wounded man; and Jude, after one or two fitful struggles against his fate, drifted lifeless down the stream and into eternity, while the widowed mother regained her child. The man of God, the chivalrous Frenchman and the brutish Mike slowly returned to their camp; but no one who met them could imagine, from their looks, that they were either of them anything better than fugitives from justice.



A LOVE OF A COTTAGE.

We had been married about six months, and were boarding in the most comfortable style imaginable, when one evening, after dinner, Sophronia announced that her heart was set upon keeping house. My heart sank within me; but one of the lessons learned within my half year of married life is, that when Sophronia's heart is set upon anything, the protests I see fit to make must be uttered only within the secret recesses of my own consciousness. Then Sophronia remarked that she had made up her mind to keep house in the country, at which information my heart sank still lower. Not that I lack appreciation of natural surroundings. I delight in localities where beautiful scenery exists, and where tired men can rest under trees without even being suspected of inebriety. But when any of my friends go house-hunting in the city, in the two or three square miles which contain all the desirable houses, their search generally occupies a month, during which time the searchers grow thin, nervous, absent-minded, and uncompanionable. What, then, would be my fate, after searching the several hundred square miles of territory which were within twenty miles of New York. But Sophronia had decided that it was to be—and I,

"Mine not to make reply; Mine not to reason why; Mine but to do or die."

By a merciful dispensation of Providence, however, I was saved from the full measure of the fate I feared. Sophronia has a highly imaginative nature; in her a fancy naturally ethereal has been made super-sensitive by long companionship of tender-voiced poets and romancers. So when I bought a railway guide and read over the names of stations within a reasonable distance of New York, Sophronia's interest was excited in exact proportion to the attractiveness of the names themselves. Communipaw she pronounced execrable. Ewenville reminded her of a dreadful psalm tune. Paterson recalled the vulgar question, "Who struck Billy Patterson?" Yonkers sounded Dutch. Morristown had a plebeian air. Rutherford Park—well, that sounded endurable; it reminded her of the scene in Mrs. Somebody's novel. Elizabeth was a dreadfully old-fashioned name. Villa Valley—

"Stop!" exclaimed Sophronia, raising impressively the hand which bore her diamond engagement ring; "that is the place, Pierre. (I was christened Peter, but Miss Sophronia never looked encouragingly upon me until a friend nicknamed me Pierre.) I have a presentiment that our home will be at Villa Valley. How melodious—how absolutely enchanting it sounds. There is always a lake or a brook in a valley, too, don't you know?"

I did not previously possess this exact knowledge of the peculiarity of valleys, but I have an accurate knowledge of what my duty is regarding any statement which Sophronia may make, so I promptly assented. By the rarest good fortune, I found in the morning paper an advertisement of a real estate agent who made a specialty of Villa Valley property. This agent, when visited by me early in the morning, abundantly confirmed Sophronia's intuition regarding brooks and lakes, by asserting that his charming town possessed both, beside many other attractions, which irresistibly drove us to Villa Valley the next day, with a letter to the agent's resident partner.

It was a bright April morning when we started in the resident agent's carriage, to visit a number of houses, the rent of which did not exceed four hundred dollars.

"Drive first to the Old Stone Cottage," said Sophronia; "the very name is enchanting."

The house itself did not support Sophronia's impression. It stood very near the road, was a quarter of a mile from any tree or bush, had three large and three small rooms, only one of which could be reached without passing through two others, for the house had no hall. The woodwork would have apparently greeted paint as a life-long stranger; the doors, in size and clumsiness, reminded me of the gates of Gaza, as pictured in Sunday-school books. The agent said it had once been Washington's headquarters, and I saw no reason to doubt his word; though I timidly asked whether tradition asserted that the Father of his Country had not suffered a twinge of neuralgia while at Villa Valley.

"A Perfect Snuggery" did not belie its name, but in size and ventilation forcibly suggested a chicken coop.

"Charming Swiss Cottage" seemed to be a remodeled pig-stye, from which objectionable matter had not been removed. "The House in the Woods" was approachable only through water half-way up to the carriage body; so we regretfully abandoned pursuit of it.

"Silver Lake!" exclaimed Sophronia, reading from the memoranda she had penciled from the agent's descriptive list. "That, I am sure, will suit us. Don't you remember, Pierre, my presentiment about a lake at Villa Valley?"

I remembered, by a little stretch of my imagination. But, alas! for the uncertainty even of the presentiments of one of Nature's most impressible children. The "lake" was a pond, perhaps twenty feet in diameter; an antiquated boot, two or three abandoned milk cans, and a dead cat, reposed upon its placid beach; and from a sheltered nook upon its southerly side, an early-aroused frog appeared, inquiringly, and uttered a cry of surprise—or, perhaps, of warning.

"Take me away?" exclaimed Sophronia, "It was a dream—a fateful dream."

"New Cottage, with all modern improvements," seemed really to justify its title; but Sophronia declined to look farther than its outside.

"I could never be happy in that house, Pierre," said she, with emphasis; "it looks to be entirely new."

"'Tis, ma'am," declared the agent; "the last coat of paint hasn't been on a month."

"So I divined," replied Sophronia. "And so it is simply a lifeless mass of boards and plaster—no loving heartthrobs ever consecrated its walls—no tender romances have been woven under its eaves—no wistful yearnings—no agonies of parting have made its chambers instinct with life—no—"

"I declare!" exclaimed the agent; "excuse me for interrupting, ma'am, but I believe I've got the very house you're looking for. How would you like a rambling, old family homestead, a hundred years old, with quaint, wide fireplaces, high mantels, overhanging eaves, a heavy screen of evergreens, vines clambering over everything, a great wide hall—"

"Exquisite—charming—enchanting—paradisaical—divine!" murmured Sophronia.

"And the rent is only three hundred dollars," continued the agent.

This latter bit of information aroused my strongest sentiment, and I begged the agent to show us the house at once.

The approach was certainly delightful. We dashed into the gloom of a mass of spruces, pines, and arbor-vitaes, and stopped suddenly in front of a little, low cottage, which consisted principally of additions, no one of which was after any particular architectural order. Sophronia gazed an instant; her face assumed an ecstatic expression which I had not seen since the day of our engagement; she threw her arms about my neck, her head drooped upon my bosom, and she whispered:

"My ideal!"

Then this matchless woman, intuitively realizing that the moment for action had arrived, reassumed her natural dignity, and, with the air of Mrs. Scott Siddons in "Elizabeth," exclaimed:

"Enough! We take it!"

"Hadn't you better examine the interior first, my love?" I suggested.

"Were the interior only that of a barn," remarked my consistent mate, "my decision would not be affected thereby. The eternal unities are never disunited, nor are—"

"I don't believe I've got the key with me," said the agent; "but perhaps we can get in through one of the windows."

The agent tied his horse and disappeared behind the house. Again Sophronia's arm encircled me, and she murmured:

"Oh, Pierre, what bliss!"

"It's a good way from the station, pet," I ventured to remark.

Sophronia's enthusiasm gave place to scorn; she withdrew her affectionate demonstration, and replied:

"Spoken like a real man! The practical, always—the ideal, never! Once I dreamed of the companionship of a congenial spirit, but, alas! 'A good way from the station!' Were I a man, I would, to reside in such a bower, plod cheerily over miles of prosaic clods."

"And you'd get your shapely boots most shockingly muddy," I thought, as the agent opened one of the front windows and invited us to enter.

"French windows, too!" exclaimed Sophronia; "oh Pierre! And see that exquisite old mantel; it looks as if it had been carved from ebony upon the banks of one of the Queen of the Adriatic's noiseless by-ways. And these tiny rooms, how cozy—how like fairy land! Again I declare, we will take it! Let us return at once to the city—how I loathe the thought of treading its noisy thoroughfares again!—and order our carpets and furniture."

"Are you sure you won't be lonesome here, darling?" I asked. "It is quite a distance from any neighbors."

"A true woman is never lonesome when she can commune with Nature," replied Sophronia. "Besides," she continued, in a less exalted strain, "I shall have Laura Stanley and Stella Sykes with me most of the time."

The agent drove us back to his office, spending not more than ten minutes on the road; yet the time sufficed Sophronia to give me in detail her idea of the combination of carpets, shades, furniture, pictures, etc., which would be in harmony with our coming domicile. Suddenly nature reasserted her claims, and Sophronia addressed the agent.

"Your partner told my husband that there were a lake and two brooks at Villa Valley. I should like to see them."

"Certainly, ma'am," replied the agent, promptly; "I'll drive you past them as you go to the train."

Ten minutes later the lease was made out and signed. I was moved to interrupt the agent with occasional questions, such as, "Isn't the house damp?" "Any mosquitoes?" "Is the water good and plentiful?" "Does the cellar extend under the whole house?" But the coldly practical nature of these queries affected Sophronia's spirits so unpleasantly, that, out of pure affection, I forebore. Then the agent invited us into his carriage again, and said he would drive us to the lower depot.

"Two stations?" I inquired.

"Yes," said he; "and one's as near to your house as the other."

"Your house," whispered Sophronia, turning her soulful eyes full upon me, and inserting her delicate elbow with unnecessary force between my not heavily covered ribs—"your house! Oh, Pierre! does not the dignity of having a house appear to you like a beautiful vision?"

"I strove for an instant to frame a reply in keeping with Sophronia's mental condition, when an unpleasant odor saluted my nose. That Sophronia was conscious of the same disgusting atmospheric feature, I learned by the sound of a decided sniff. Looking about us, I saw a large paper mill beside a stream, whose contents looked sewer-like.

"Smell the paper-mash boiling?" asked the agent. "Peculiar, isn't it? Very healthy, though, they say."

On the opposite side of the road trickled a small gutter, full of a reddish-brown liquid, its source seeming to be a dye-house behind us. Just then we drove upon a bridge, which crossed a vile pool, upon the shore of which was a rolling-mill.

"Here's the lake," said the agent; "Dellwild Lake, they call it. And here's the brooks emptying into it, one on each side of the road."

Sophronia gasped and looked solemn. Her thoughtfulness lasted but a moment, however; then she applied her daintily perfumed handkerchief to her nose and whispered: "Dellwild! Charbig dabe, Pierre, dod't you thig so?"

During the fortnight which followed, Sophronia and I visited house-furnishing stores, carpet dealers, furniture warehouses, picture stores, and bric-a-brac shops. The agent was very kind; he sent a boy to the house with the keys every time the express wished to deliver any of our goods. Finally, the carpet dealer having reported the carpets laid, Sophronia, I, and our newly engaged servant, started by rail to Villa Valley, three double-truck loads of furniture preceding us by way of the turnpike. I had thoughtfully ordered quite a quantity of provisions put into the house, in advance of our arrival. Hiring a carriage at the station, and obtaining the keys of the agent, we drove to our residence. Sophronia, to use her own expression, 'felt as she imagined Juno did, when first installed as mistress of the rosy summit of the divine mount; while I, though scarcely in a mood to compare myself with Jove, was conscious of a new and delightful sense of manliness. The shades and curtains were in the windows, the sun shone warmly upon them, and a bright welcome seemed to extend itself from the whole face of the cottage. I unlocked the door and tenderly kissed my darling under the lintel; then we stepped into the parlor. Sophronia immediately exclaimed: