"Mr. Farrington," Nellie replied, holding herself in check with a mighty effort, "I am very much astonished at the words I have just heard. I came here to talk to you as a lady would talk to a gentleman. But great is my surprise to be insulted to my face. You have no right to speak to me as you have done this morning, or to take such liberties as regards Stephen Frenelle. He is a real gentleman's son, and has the true instincts of a gentleman. We were children together, and I do not wish you to speak of him or any friend of mine in a slighting manner. As to your remarks in reference to your son, they are so unworthy of a father and mother that they arouse in me the feelings of deepest pity for you. I blush to think that you should ever suggest such a thing, and am surprised that your better nature does not assert itself, and cause you to cover your heads in shame for having uttered such words."

Nellie spoke rapidly with her eyes fixed full upon Farrington's face. The latter shifted uneasily at this torrent of words, and occasionally glanced at his wife, who was sitting near with open-mouthed wonder.

"Dear me, dear me!" Mrs. Farrington replied. "I allus thought ye was sich a nice, modest little thing, an' to think that ye should go on like this. What would yer dear mother think if she was livin'?"

"You are a mother, Mrs. Farrington," Nellie responded, "and what would you think if anyone made such a proposition to Eudora as you have made to me?"

"Oh, that's a different question."

"And in what way?"

"Oh, Eudora will hev money, an' will not be left penniless, while you an' yer father are jist dependin' upon the parish."

"Yes, I know it only too well," Nellie bitterly answered. "We are little more than paupers, trusting to the voluntary offerings of the people for our support. But then, this has little to do with what I came here for. We have wandered from the subject. I came simply to speak on behalf of my father."

"Oh, that matter's settled now once and fer all," Farrington replied in a cool, matter-of-fact manner. "Ye've taken the bizness into yer own hands. We've made ye a good offer, an' ye've refused pint blank, so we'll consider this little affair atween us settled. Sam Dobbins is in the store waitin' fer me, so I shall tell 'im to go ahead an' serve the summons."

"Stop a minute," Nellie demanded, as Farrington rose to his feet, stretched himself, and started leisurely towards the door.

"There's something you evidently have not considered which might change matters a little. I came here this morning trusting to get your consent to leave my father alone without any unnecessary trouble. I appealed to your manhood, but in vain. Now, there is only one course open to me, which I will be obliged to take."

"Hey, what's this?" and Farrington's brow knitted in perplexity. "I don't understand you."

"No, certainly you don't, but you will presently. I would like to ask who it was you sent out after the Stickles' cow?"

"Why, Pete, of course; my hired man. He allus does that work fer me, an' has taken dozens of 'em at various times."

"Yes, so I have heard," and Nellie's voice was charged with a warning note. "But were you not afraid of the risk you were running, Mr. Farrington?"

"Risk? what risk? I never had any trouble. What do you mean?"

"But is Pete a constable?"

"A constable, be blowed! What are ye drivin' at?"

"Did he have a warrant from a magistrate to go to the Stickles' place, open the door, enter the barn, and try to take away that cow?"

"N-no, certainly not. But he never had one afore, an' everything was all right."

"Yes, it was all right as far as you were concerned, because no one interfered, and the people were always too poor to make a fuss. But do you know that you have laid yourself open to a grave offence? In the eyes of the law you tried to steal that cow from the Stickles."

"Girl! Girl! What do ye mean by talkin' this way?" and Farrington bounded from his chair in a rage. "Explain to me at once what ye mean by sich words!"

"There's nothing much to explain, Mr. Farrington. Without a warrant, or any legal authority, you sent your servant to break into a private barn, and lead away a cow belonging to Mr. Stickles. Because my father interfered you wish to have him arrested. I hope you see the point."

Farrington was certainly a study just then. His eyes glowered, and his face was inflamed with rage. He was in a trap and he knew it.

"Ye'll pay fer this!" he cried, stamping upon the floor, in anger. "Ye'll —Ye'll——!"

"Very well," Nellie calmly replied. "I've simply told you your position, so now if you wish to go ahead, do so. You will know what to expect. Perhaps I have been a better friend to you than you now imagine. Remember, we have friends, who know a thing or two, and besides, if you are not careful, something may go wrong on election day."

"Who told you this, girl?" Farrington demanded. "Who put ye up to this bizness?"

"That's my own affair. I have warned you, so go ahead if you care to. I shall say no more."

With that she turned and walked quietly out of the house, put on her snowshoes, and started on her homeward way. But the trying ordeal through which she had passed told upon her. She trembled violently, and a great weakness came over her. She felt that she would sink down upon the snow. How could she continue? She looked all around, but no sign of life could she behold; no one to aid her. What was she to do? She thought of her father. Was he waiting for her, perhaps wondering where she was? With a great effort she moved slowly forward, and presently found her strength returning. On and on she plodded. Never had the snowshoes seemed so heavy, or the way so long, and right glad was she to see at last the Rectory rise up large and homelike before her. She reached the door, doffed the snowshoes, entered the house, hurried to her own room, and throwing herself upon her bed, wept as if her heart would break. She was tired—oh, so tired. The tears brought a blessed relief to her surcharged feelings, and when she at length sought her father's side a sunny smile illumined her face, her step was firm, and little remained to show to a casual observer the fierce struggle through which she had recently passed.



Chapter XVII

Hitting Back

Farrington said very little after Nellie's departure. He even surprised his wife by his coolness, for instead of raging, swearing and stamping around the house he walked quietly out into the store. Here he busied himself with various matters, and talking at times to the few customers who straggled in. When no one was present he sat on a high stool by the window and gazed out over the snow. He was not thinking of money now, nor how much his eggs and butter would bring. His mind was dwelling upon that scene which had just taken place. He thought nothing of the brave defence Nellie had made on behalf of her father, but only of his own wounded feelings. At times his hands would clinch, and a half-audible curse escape his lips. He would get even, oh, yes! But how? He saw the danger of going any further in connection with the Stickles' cow affair. He must let that drop. There were other ways, he was sure of that; the difficulty was to know just what to do.

The door opened, and a tall, lanky man entered, with a pair of skates dangling over his left shoulder.

"Hello, Miles!" exclaimed Farrington, hurrying around to shake hands with him. "Haven't seen you fer an age. What's the news at Craig's Corner? Set down, you look about tuckered out."

"Should say I was," Miles drawled forth. "Never got into such a mess in all my life. Skated down river Sunday evening and was caught in that blasted snowstorm, and so am footing it back."

"Dear me, that's hard luck," and Farrington sat down upon a soap-box. "Anyway, I'm mighty glad to see ye. Hope things are goin' well at the Corner. Much election talk, eh?"

"Considerable. The air's been full of it lately, but I guess Sunday's doings will give the folks a new subject for awhile. 'Twas certainly a stunner!"

"Why, what do ye mean, Miles? Nobody killed, I hope."

"What! Haven't you heard anything?"

"No, how could I with the storm blockin' the roads."

"Sure. I never thought of that. But I supposed the parson let it out."

"The parson!" and Farrington's eyes opened wide with amazement. "What in the devil has he to do with it? He was brought home night afore last with his shoulder out of jint"

"Whew! You don't say so! Well, I declare!"

"Tell me what ye mean, man," exclaimed Farrington, moving impatiently on his seat. "Let's have the yarn."

"Ha-ha! It was a corker! Just think of it; a funeral procession moving slowly across the river, with Tim Fraser and Parson John racing by like a whirlwind. I never saw anything like it, ha-ha!" and Miles leaning back laughed loud and long at the recollection.

Farrington was all attention now. A gleam of delight shone in his eyes, and a faint sigh of relief escaped his lips. He controlled his eagerness, however, for he wished to draw Miles out, and learn the whole story.

"Ye don't mean to tell me," he remarked, "that the parson was racin' on Sunday? Surely ye must be mistaken!"

"I'm a liar then," calmly replied the other, gazing thoughtfully down at his boots. "Yes, I'm a liar, and a fool! Why, didn't I see the whole thing with my own eyes? And didn't all the people of Craig's Corner see it, too? Ask them, they'll tell you the same."

"I don't doubt yer word, Miles, but it's so unusual. The parson never did anything like that before, did he?"

"Not to my knowledge. But he's mighty fond of a horse, and a fast one at that, so I guess when Tim Fraser clipped up he couldn't resist the temptation."

"Did he explain about it? Did he tell how it happened?"

"He didn't say much. I heard him tell some people that he never let the devil get ahead of him, and he was bound he wouldn't do it that time."

"Ho-ho! That's what he said? Nothing more?"

"No, not that I heard. I came away after that, so nothing new has reached me since, except what you tell me. Is he badly injured?"

"I don't know. Guess he'll come out all right; he generally does."

"He looked very well on Sunday. I'm really sorry he's met with this accident."

"Mebbe it had something to do with the race," suggested Farrington.

"In what way?"

"Perhaps it's a punishment fer what he did on Sunday."

"Surely, you don't say—!" and Miles' mouth opened in surprise.

"Oh, I don't say anything fer certain. I only know that sich things sometimes do happen. A man who will race on the Sacred Day of Rest must expect almost anything to happen. I've known of several sich cases. Something generally does happen."

"You don't say so! Well!"

"Now honestly," continued Farrington very deliberately, "do ye think sich a man is fit to be the minister of the Gospel in Glendow? Do ye think a man who stands in church on Sunday an' reads them solemn words about keepin' the Sabbath Day holy, an' then goes out on the ice an' engages in a horse-race—do ye think sich a man is fit to teach our people? What an example to set our children! When we tell 'em to remember the Day an' keep it holy, they will say, 'Oh, the parson raced his horse on Sunday!' Oh, yes, that's what they'll say. So you see what a condition the parish will be in."

"Well, I never thought of it that way," replied Miles, rising to his feet. "But I must be off. I see the road is being broken."

When the man had left the store Farrington stood for some time with his hands clasped behind his back. He was in deep thought, and occasionally his lips curled with a pleased smile. He then walked to the window, and watched the men breaking the roads. He saw his own hired man, Pete Davis, among the rest. Most of the able-bodied men of the neighbourhood were there with shovels and teams. It was an inspiring sight to see team after team in a long procession plowing their way forward among the high drifts. Where the snow was light the leading horses would plunge through, blowing, snorting, struggling, and at times almost hidden from view. In places shovels had to be used and then cuttings, narrow and deep, were made through the banks, just wide enough for one team to move at a time. For hours the work had been carried on, and at length the last drift had been conquered, and communication, from place to place once again opened up.

Farrington watching the horses surging through was not thinking of the fine appearance they presented. His mind was upon a far different matter. He stood there, saw the teams swing around and finally disappear up the road. It pleased him to see Miles riding upon one of the sleds. His ready tongue was as good as a newspaper, and he would spread the story of the Sunday race wherever he went.

Mrs. Farrington was surprised at her husband's jocular manner when he was called to dinner. He joked and laughed more than he had done in many a day. Not a word did he say about Nellie's visit; in fact he seemed to have forgotten all about it.

"Ye must have done a good bizness this mornin', Si," his wife remarked. "I haven't seen ye in sich fine spirits in a long time."

"Haven't sold as much as usual, my dear," was the reply. "Didn't expect to anyway, as the roads have jist been broken."

"But ye seem very happy. Has anything remarkable occurred?"

"Simply an idea, my dear, simply an idea."

"Well, well, who'd a thought it. I didn't know that an idea 'ud make one feel so good. Tell me about it, Si."

"No, not now. I haven't time. Besides, I want to see how it'll work, an' then I'll surprise ye."

Farrington rose from the table, and going to the store went at once to the small office. Here he spent some time writing, and at the end of a half hour gave a chuckle of satisfaction, laid aside the pen, folded up the paper and put it into his pocket. Next he went into the stable, and ordered Pete to harness the horse and have it at the door in fifteen minutes. At the end of that time he came from the house, wrapped in his large fur coat, cap and mittens. Soon he was speeding over the road, leaving Mrs. Farrington, Eudora and Dick watching him from the window, and wondering what it all meant,

Farrington was forth upon important business, and he knew exactly at what houses to stop. There were the Fletchers, he was sure of them; the Marshalls, their kinsmen; the Burtons, and several families who owed fair-sized bills at the store, and would be unable to pay for some time.

The sun was dipping big and red far westward when Farrington turned his horse's head homeward. He was well pleased with his afternoon's work. No one had refused to sign the petition he carried, and over twenty names had been scrawled upon the paper.

As he moved along his eyes rested upon a little cottage away to the right, nestling near a grove of large maple trees. Old Henry Burchill, the wood-chopper, lived there. Farrington's brows knitted as he thought of him. Would he sign the paper? He knew that Henry was once opposed to the parson for introducing certain things into the church. But then that was long ago, and he wondered how the old man felt now. Anyway there was that unpaid bill at the store. It would have some weight, and it was no harm to try.

Mrs. Burchill was at home, and was surprised to see the storekeeper enter the house. She was a quiet, reserved woman, who mingled little with her neighbours. The lines of care upon her face, the bent back and the toil-worn hands told their own tale of a long, hard battle for life's bare necessities. Her heart beat fast as she shook hands with her visitor, for she, too, thought of that bill at the store, which she and her husband had been bravely striving to pay.

"Is yer husband at home, Mrs. Burchill?" asked Farrington, seating himself on a splint-bottomed chair.

"No, sir. He's in the woods chopping for Stephen. I'm afraid he won't be home to-night."

"Dear me! that's too bad," and Farrington brought forth the paper from his pocket. "I wanted 'im to do a little favour fer me—simply to put his name to this pertition. But, if you'll do it, 'twill be jist the same," and he handed over the paper.

Mrs. Burchill put on her glasses, and slowly and carefully read the words written there. Farrington watched her closely and noted the colour mounting to her faded cheeks, and the look of reproach in her eyes as she at length turned them upon his face.

"And you expect me to put my name to this?" she demanded.

"An' why not?" smiled Farrington. "Have you read what the paper sez?"

"Yes, every word."

"An' don't ye think there's a reason why ye should sign it? Don't ye think the Bishop should know what kind of a parson we have?"

"Mr. Farrington," and Mrs. Burchill spoke very deliberately, "if the Angel Gabriel himself came with that paper for me to sign I should refuse. I'm an old woman now, and why should I commit such a sin in my declining years?"

"Sin! what sin would ye commit in simply signin' that paper?" Farrington demanded.

Mrs. Burchill did not reply at once, but placing her hand upon a Bible lying by her side she reverently opened it.

"Listen to these words," she said. "They are not mine, remember, but the Lord's. 'Touch not mine anointed,' He says, 'and do my prophets no harm.' Now Parson John is one of the Lord's anointed, set apart for a sacred work, and it's a dangerous thing to strive against Him."

"Tut, tut, woman! That's all rubbish! Them things happened in olden days. Besides, we have a just grievance. He is interferin' too much with the affairs of others. He takes too much upon himself. Then, what about that race on Sunday? Do ye think we should stand that?"

"Ah, sir, it's the same old story. Don't you remember how people said the very same thing about Moses and Aaron, long, long ago. They said that those two men were taking too much upon them, and a rebellion ensued. And what was the result? The Lord punished the people, the earth opened and swallowed them up. I often read that story to Henry in the evenings, and it makes us feel very serious. Oh, yes, it's a dangerous thing to interfere with the Lord's anointed. Something's bound to happen to the ones who do it."

Farrington could stand this no longer. He had met with such success during the afternoon that to hear this rebuke from Mrs. Burchill was most annoying.

"Woman!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. "I don't want to hear all this. I didn't come here to be preached to about sich old-fashioned trash as the 'Lord's anointed!' I came here to git ye to sign that paper, an' not to be preached to! Will ye sign it or will ye not?"

"No, I shall not sign it!" was the quiet response.

"Very well, then, that's all I want to know. But remember, Mrs. Burchill, there's a little unpaid account on my books against your husband. Please tell 'im to call and settle it at once. If not—oh, well you know the result," and Farrington looked significantly around the room. "So, good-day. I must be off."

Mrs. Burchill stood at the window and watched Farrington drive away. Then a sigh escaped her lips. She went back to the chair where she had been sitting, and kneeling down buried her face in her hands. For some time she remained in prayer, but her earnest pleadings were not for herself or her husband, but for the old grey-headed man—the Venerable Rector of Glendow.



Chapter XVIII

Wash-Tub Philosophy

"I've been up to me neck in soap-suds ever sense daybreak, an' I ain't done yit."

So declared Mrs. Stickles as she wiped her hands upon her apron and offered a chair to her visitor, Betsy McKrigger.

"I'm rale glad to see ye, nevertheless," she continued, "fer it's been a month of Sundays sense I sot eyes on ye last. How've ye been? An' yer old man, is he well?"

"Only fairly," replied Mrs. McKrigger, laying aside her bonnet and shawl, and taking the proffered chair. "Abraham went to the mill this mornin' an' I came this fer with 'im. We were clean out of flour, an', although the roads are bad, there was no help fer it, so he had to go, poorly as he is. He'll stop fer me on his way back."

"An' what's wrong with 'im?" asked Mrs. Stickles, going back to her washing.

"The doctor thinks he's got delapitation of the heart. Abraham was never very strong there, and suffers most after eatin'. I'm gittin' very nervous about 'im."

"Oh, is that all?" and Mrs. Stickles paused in her work. "I wouldn't worry about that. Mebbe he eats too much. Men's hearts an' stummicks are purty closely kernected, an' what affects the one affects t'other. It's indisgestion the man's got-that's what 'tis. It's a wonder to me they don't all hev it."

"Mebbe yer right, Mrs. Stickles. 'Abraham is certainly a big eater. But it wasn't eatin' which gave 'im the delapitation yesterday."

"What was it, then?"

"It was Si Farrington who gave it to 'im. That's who it was."

"Ugh!" ejaculated Mrs. Stickles. "Surely a cur like that wouldn't affect anyone, would it? I'm jist waitin' to run agin Farrington meself, an' then we'll see who'll hev palputation of the heart. It'll not be me, I reckon."

"It's very true what ye say," replied Mrs. McKrigger, bringing forth her knitting, "but when ye owe the man a bill at the store, an' heven't the money to pay, it makes a big difference."

"So he's been at you, has he? I s'pose he's been tryin' to git yer cow, horse or farm. He tried it here, but Parson John, bless his soul, soon stopped that."

"No, not like that. He only hinted what he'd do if Abraham didn't sign the pertition."

"Oh, I see. He's goin' to run fer councillor, an' wanted yer husband to sign his denomination paper, did he?"

"No, no, not that. It's about the parson."

"What! Parson John?"

"Yes, it's about 'im, poor man."

"Land sakes! What's up now?" and Mrs. Stickles paused in her work and stood with arms akimbo.

"Farrington thinks the parson's too old fer the work, an' that we should hev a young man with snap an' vim, like Mr. Sparks, of Leedsville. He believes the young people need to be stirred up; that they're gittin' tired of the old humdrum way, an' that the parish is goin' to the dogs. But that wasn't all. He thinks the parson isn't a fit man to be here after that disgraceful racin' scene on the river last Sunday. He sez it's an awful example to the young. So he's gittin' up the pertition to send to the Bishop."

Mrs. Stickles had left the wash-tub now and was standing before her visitor. Anger was expressed in her every movement.

"An' do ye tell me!" she demanded, "that yer husband signed that paper?"

"W-what else was there to do?" and Mrs. McKrigger dropped her knitting and shrank back from the irate form before her. "How could he help it?"

"Betsy McKrigger, I never thought ye'd come to this. Help it! Why didn't yer husband help Farrington out of the door with the toe of his boot?"

"But think of that unpaid bill, Mrs. Stickles."

"Unpaid bill, be fiddlesticks! Would ye turn aginst yer best earthly friend fer the sake of a bill?"

"What else could we do?"

"Do? Let yer cow or anything else go! What do sich things amount to when yer honour's at stake. Dear me, dear me! has it come to this?"

"Ye needn't make sich a fuss about the matter," and Mrs. McKrigger bristled up a bit. "It's a purty serious thing when yer whole livin's in the fryin'-pan."

"Livin', livin'! Where does yer livin' come from anyway, Mrs. McKrigger? Doesn't the Lord send it? I reckon He'll look after us. Didn't He tend to old 'Lijah when he done his duty. Didn't the ravens feed 'im? An' what about that widee of Jerrypath? Didn't her meal and ile last when she done what was right? Tell me that!"

"Oh, yes, that may be as ye say. I ain't botherin' about old 'Lijah an' that widow. If them people lived to-day they'd jine forces an' start the biggest flour an' ile company the world has ever seen. I wish 'Lijah 'ud come our way some day, fer me an' Abraham hev often scraped the bottom of the flour barrel an' poured out the last drop of ile, not knowin' where any more was comin' from."

"Tut, tut, woman!" remonstrated Mrs. Stickles. "It's wrong fer ye to talk that way. Hev ye ever really wanted? Didn't the flour and the ile come somehow? Whenever we're scrapin' the bottom of the barrel it seems that the Lord allus hears us, and doesn't let us want. I guess, if we stan' by the Lord, He'll stan' by us. I'm mighty sorry yer man signed that pertition aginst that man of God. It don't seem right nohow."

"I'm not worryin' about that, Mrs. Stickles. Farrington has considerable right on his side. The parson is old. We do need a young man with snap an' vim. The parson's sermints are too dry an' deep. Abraham sleeps right through 'em, an' says it's impossible to keep awake."

"Well, I declare!" and Mrs. Stickles held up her hands in amazement. "To think that I should live to hear sich words in me own house. Ye say the parson's too old. Ain't ye ashamed of them words? Too old! D'ye want some new dapper little snob spoutin' from the pulpit who hasn't as much knowledge in his hull body as Parson John has in his little finger? I know there's many a thing the parson talks about that I can't understan', an' so there is in the Bible. I often talk the matter over with John. 'John,' sez I, 'Ye recollect when ye was makin' that wardrobe fer me out in the shed two springs ago?'

"'Well,' sez he.

"'An' ye remember how the children used to watch ye an' wonder what ye was makin'!'

"'Sartinly,' sez he.

"'An' how they used to pick up the shavin's ye planed off, an' brung them inter the house.'

"He kalkerlated he did.

"'Well then,' sez I, 'John, them children didn't understan' what ye was makin', but they could pick up the shavin's an' make use of 'em. So when Parson John is preachin' an' I can't altogether foller him, I kin pick up somethin' here an' thar which I do understand, an' them are the shavin's which I kin use, an' do use. Oh! John,' sez I, 'hasn't the parson been droppin' shavin's fer over thirty years, an' not allus in the pulpit either, an' haven't we ben helped 'cause we picked 'em up an' made 'em our own?' John said I was right, an' he knows, dear soul."

"That may be all very well fer you an' John," replied Mrs. McKrigger, "but what about the young people, an' the older ones fer all that, who won't pick up the shavin's? Farrington sez we want a poplar young man who kin speak without any preparation, like Mr. Dale, the missionary who was here last summer. Now, there was a man up to whom the young men could look, a reglar soldier, who had been in the fight in Africy, had lived among lions, tagers and niggers. He was a hero, an' if we could git a rale live missionary like that, he'd make Glendow hum, an' the old church 'ud be packed to the doors every Sunday. It's them missionaries who has the hard time. Oh, they're wonderful people. Parson John's a good man, but he ain't in the same line with them nohow. He's too commonplace, an' don't stir the people up."

For a while Mrs. Stickles did not reply. She wiped her hands on her apron, and crossing the room took down a small pot, put in a little tea, filled it with water, and set it on the back of the stove to draw. Next she brought forth some large frosted doughnuts, and after she had poured a cup of tea for Mrs. McKrigger and one for herself she sat down upon an old splint-bottomed chair.

"Did I ever tell ye the conversation I had with Mr. Dale, that missionary from Africy?" she at length asked.

"No, I never heerd it," came the reply.

"Well, that's queer, an' it happened only last summer, too. Ye see, we all went to the missionary meetin' in the church, an' Mr. Dale told us about that furren land. Somehow I didn't take to the man, an' I liked 'im less as he went on. All the time he was speakin' I noted how eagerly Parson John listened. Often his buzum heaved-like, an' I thought I heerd 'im sigh. But when the speaker 'gun to compare Africy with Canada and Glendow, I got mad. 'Here the work is small,' sez he; 'thar it's mighty! Here ye hev yer hundreds; thar we hev our thousands. Here things is easy; thar hard.' As he talked on that way I looked at the parson an' saw a pained expression on his dear face. I jist longed to jump to me feet, an' pint out that old grey-headed man a sittin' thar, an' tell a few things I know. But I got me chance later."

"What! ye didn't say anything hard, I hope?" interrupted Mrs. McKrigger.

"Only the plain truth; jist what he needed. Ye see, me an' John was axed into the Rectory afterwards to meet the missionary an' hev a cup of tea. Mr. Dale did most of the talkin', an' told us a hull lot more about his experiences in Africy. But somehow he rubbed me the wrong way. He had little use fer Canada, an' said so, an' that was mor'n I could stan'.

"'Mr. Dale,' sez I, speakin' up, when his jaw stopped waggin' fer an instant. 'Would ye be willin' to leave yer present field of labour?'

"'No,' sez he, lookin' at me surprised-like.'

"'An' why not,' sez I.

"'Oh the work is so inspirin' out thar,' sez he. 'I'd about die in a—a—' (I think he was goin' to say a country parish like this) but he said 'settled field whar the work is so quiet, ye know.'

"'An' ye wouldn't be willin' to give up Africy,' sez I, 'fer a poor parish like Glendow, if thar was no clergyman here?'

"'No,' sez he, in a hesitatin' way, fer he didn't seem to know what I was a drivin' at.

"'Exactly so, Mr. Dale,' sez I. 'It takes a heap of spunk, I reckon, to go to them furren fields, but I kalkerlate it often takes jist as much to stay to hum, feed pigs, hens, an' look after a hull batch of children. I've hearn men preach about sacryfice in big churches, but I generally find that, when a poor country parish gits vacant, they don't seem inclined to give up their rich churches an' step into a humbler place. Yet sometimes I've heerd of sich men goin' to furren fields. An' why is that, Mr. Dale?'

"'That they might do more work fer the Master,' sez he.

"'I think yer wrong thar,' sez I. 'Now, look here. To enter a country parish is to be almost unknown, an' people say, 'Oh, he's only a country parson,' an' they stick up their ugly noses, which they think are acristocat. But let a man go to a furren field, an', my lands! they blubber over 'im an' make a great fuss. If he combs the head of a little nigger brat out thar in Africy—though no doubt he needs it—why the missionary magazines an' papers are full of it. If he pulls the tooth of an old Injun chief who has a dozen wives taggin' around after 'im, the people hold up thar hands in wonder, an' call 'im a hero. But let a man stay at hum in a parish like Glendow, an' no one hears of his doin's, cause they don't want to.'"

"My! ye didn't say all that?" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger, "an' to a rale live missionary, too."

"Them's the exact words I said, an' them ain't all," rattled on Mrs. Stickles. "I had me tongue on 'im then, an' it did me good to see his face. He looked once towards the door as if he thought I'd jump at 'im. Oh, it was as good as a circus to see 'im shake," and she laughed at the recollection of it.

"'Remember,' sez I, 'I ain't got nuthin' agin furren missions, fer they do a heap of good. But I would like to see things levelled up a bit. If I git down on me knees an' scrub the floor, it's nuthin' thought of. But if a missionary does it, a great fuss is made. When Parson John is dug out of snow-banks every week, when his sleigh gits upsot an' throws 'im into the ditch, no one outside the parish ever hears of it. But let sich things happen to a furren missionary, an', my lands! it's wonderful.'

"I could see all the time that Mr. Dale was gittin' excited an' excititer.

"'Woman,' sez he in a lofty kind of way, which reminded me of a young rooster tryin' to crow, 'do ye realize what yer talkin' about? Do ye know yer treadin' on delicate ground?'

"'Yes,' sez I, 'when I tread on a man's toes, it's purty delicate ground.'

"'I don't mean that,' sez he. 'But do ye know that I'm a missionary, an' do ye know what it means to be away from hum seven years, away in a furren land?'

"'Yes,' sez I. 'It means a holiday of a hull year at the end, with yer salary goin' on, an' yer travellin' expenses paid. D'ye think, Mr. Dale, that the parson here ever gits sich a holiday? Y'bet yer life he doesn't. He's been here workin' like a slave fer over thirty years now, an' in all that time he never had a holiday.'

"At that the parson himself speaks up. 'I think yer wrong thar, Mrs. Stickles,' sez he. 'I had two hull weeks once, fer which I've allus been most thankful.'

"'An what are two weeks?' sez I. 'An' didn't ye pay yer own travellin' expenses?'

"'Yes,' sez he, 'I did.'

"'Thar now,' sez I to Mr. Dale. 'What d'ye think of that? Two weeks in over thirty years of hard work!' But that reminds me of somethin' else— an', sez I, 'Who pays yer salary, Mr. Dale? D'ye mind tellin' me that?'

"'The Mission Board' sez he.

"'An' do ye git it reglar?' sez I.

"'Every month,' sez he.

"'I thought so,' sez I. 'An' d'ye think the parson here gits his every month?'

"'I don't know,' sez he. 'But s'pose he does.'

"'Not by a long chalk,' sez I. 'He has to wait months an' months fer it, an' sometimes he doesn't git it at all, an' then has to take hay an' oats, or do without. I know that to be a fact. Old skinflint Reeker over thar owed two dollars one year to the church, an' he wondered how in the world he was to git out of payin' it. Durin' the summer a Sunday-school picnic was held on his place back in his grove, an' fer one of the games the parson cut down four little beeches about as big as canes. Thar was thousands of 'em growin' around, an' wasn't worth a postage-stamp. But old Reeker saw 'im cut 'em, an' the next day he went to the parson an' told 'im how vallable the beeches was—his fancy trees or somethin' like that— an' charged 'im fifty cents a piece, the amount he owed to the church. "Wasn't that so, Parson?" sez I, turnin' to 'im.'

"'Yes, yes,' sez he. 'But it ain't worth speakin' about now. I think we had better have our cup of tea, an' talk no more about the subject.'"

"Dear, good man," and Mrs. Stickles wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. "He was kinder upsot at what I said. But not so, Nellie. Her sweet face jist beamed on me, an' when I went out into the kitchen to help her she put her arms about me old neck, an' gave me a good big thumpin' kiss. That's what she did."

Scarcely had Mrs. Stickles ended, ere bells were heard outside.

"Why, I declare, if Abraham ain't back already!" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger, rising to her feet and donning her hat and wraps. "He's made a quick trip. I'm very grateful, indeed I am, fer the cup of tea an' the pleasant time I've had. Ye must come to see me as soon as ye kin."

Mrs. Stickles stood for some time at the window watching the McKriggers driving away. She was thinking deeply, and a plan was being evolved in her mind which made her forget her washing and the various household duties. At length she turned and entered the room where her husband and little Ruth were lying.

"John," she said, after she had related to him what Mrs. McKrigger had told her about Farrington and the petition, "d'ye think you an' Ruthie will mind if me an' Sammy go into the shore this afternoon with old Queen?"

"Why no, dear," was the reply. "But don't ye think the roads are too bad, an' besides, what are ye thinkin' of?"

"I don't mind the roads, John. They're purty well smashed down by now, an' Queen's very stidy. I've a plan, John, which comes right from me insides," and leaning over she whispered it into his ear.

"Land sakes, dear!" replied her husband. "D'ye think ye kin manage it? Will they listen to ye? Ye're only a woman, remember, an' what kin a woman do?"

"Yes, I'm only a woman, John, an' mebbe 'tain't a woman's place. But when men are too scart an' heven't as much spunk as a chicken jist outer the shell, what else is thar to do? Is thar no one in the hull parish to stan' up fer the Lord's anointed? Tell me that. Didn't that beautiful Queen Ester stan' before her crank of a husband, Hazen Hearus, an' plead fer the lives of her people? An' didn't Jael do the Lord's will when she put old Sirseree outer the way, tell me that? Now, I ain't a queen like Ester, an' I hope I ain't a woman like Jael that 'ud drive a nail through a man's head. I'm jist plain old Marthy Stickles, but mebbe I kin do somethin' fer the Lord, even if I ain't purty or clever."

An hour later an old, lean horse fastened to a homemade pung was wending its way slowly along the road leading to the river. Holding the reins was Sammy, a queer little figure, wrapped from head to foot, bravely maintaining his precarious position on six inches of the end of the board seat. Towering above him, broad-shouldered and ponderous, sat Mrs. Stickles, the very embodiment of health and strength.

"Sammy," said she, as the sled lurched along the rough road, "I don't like this bizness. But when the Lord's work's to be did, somebody's got to set his face like flint, as the Bible sez, an' do it. Don't ye ever fergit that, Sammy. Don't ye ever disremember that yer ma told ye."



Chapter XIX

The Sting

The buzz of gossip once more filled the air of Glendow. This last affray between Parson John and Farrington and the part Nellie had taken gave greater scope to the numerous busy tongues. Up and down the shore road and throughout the back settlements the news travelled. It was discussed at the store, the blacksmith shop, the mill, and in the homes at night, wherever a few were gathered together. The Fletchers had never been idle since the night of old Billy's death. They stirred up others by various stories and conjectures, fashioned in their own suspicious minds. "Why," they asked, "did not the parson explain about that money he paid down for the Frenelle homestead? How was it that a poor country parson was able to buy such a farm? They were further incensed by an incident which happened several weeks after the auction. Tom Fletcher was determined that he would question the parson some day, in the presence of others. He prided himself upon his keenness of observation and shrewdness in detecting a guilty manner in those whom he suspected of wrong-doing. The first opportunity he seized when he met the parson at the blacksmith shop, waiting for his horse to be shod.

"Well, Parson, are ye goin' to sell the farm?" he asked in a sort of careless manner.

"What farm?" was the reply.

"Oh, the Frenelle place."

"No; it's not for sale."

"Well, is that so? Money's tight these times, an' I thought mebbe ye'd he glad to get rid of it."

"No. I'm not anxious to do so."

"But, isn't it a heap of money to be tied up in one place? Mebbe ye'd give us a hint how ye manage to do it. It's as much as us poor farmers kin do to live, let alone put four thousand in a place which we don't intend to use!"

Tom tipped a wink to several others in the shop, as much as to say, "Now, I've cornered him. Watch for the fun." Parson John saw the wink, and drew himself suddenly up. He realized that the man was drawing him out for some purpose, and it was as well to check him first as last.

"Tom, do you mind," he asked, "if I put one question to you?"

"Why, certainly not. Drive ahead."

"It's concerning that Widow Tompkins' place. Perhaps you will tell us how you got control of it? Such a thing doesn't happen every day."

Across Tom's face spread an angry flush, while a half-suppressed laugh was heard from the bystanders. All knew very well that Tom had cheated the widow out of her property, though no one ever had the courage to mention it to him before.

"What do you mean by that question?" demanded Fletcher.

"It's a simple one, though, is it not?" the parson quietly responded. "It naturally makes us curious."

"Then I'll not satisfy such d—— curiosity. I tend my own affairs, an' I ax others to do the same."

"That's just the point, Tom," and the parson looked him square in the eyes. "You wish to be let alone with your business, and so do I. You don't wish to satisfy idle curiosity with your affairs, and neither do I. So we are quits."

This incident only caused the Fletchers to hate the parson more than ever. Their greatest ally was Farrington. He was a man of considerable means, and to have his support meant much. Never before was he known to be so liberal to the people who came to his store. Often he invited them into his house to sup with him, and then the grievances and election matters were thrashed out. Occasionally when a farmer came to make purchases, Farrington would see that a present was bestowed in the form of a piece of calico for the wife, or some candy for the children. This was done especially when Farrington was not sure of his man. He was playing his part, not only stirring up these men against the man of God, but also ingratiating himself into their good wishes against the day of the election. When Farrington entered the field as a candidate for the County Council, he knew he would have a hard struggle against his opponent, Philip Gadsby, who was a man much respected, and had occupied the position of councillor with considerable credit for two terms. The storekeeper had been hard at work for some time with no visible success, for the Farrington family with their high-flown ideas were much disliked by the quiet, humble-minded folk of Glendow. The idea, therefore, of him being Ifteir representative was at first abhorrent to most of the people. But this new ruse of Farrington's was proving most successful. The Fletchers drew with them all the loud-talking and undesirable element of Glendow. This Farrington well knew, and by espousing their cause he was greatly strengthening his own. The election day was only a few weeks off, so Farrington and his party had no time to lose.

During all this buzz of gossip, Parson John, the man most vitally concerned, was perfectly oblivious of the disturbance. Of a most unsuspecting nature, and with rot a particle of guile in his honest heart, he could not imagine anyone harming him by word or deed. Happy in his work, happy in the midst of his flock, and with Ms pleasant little home guarded by his bright housekeeper, he had no thought of trouble. To his eyes the sky was clear. His humble daily tasks brought him comfort through the day, and sweet, undisturbed rest by night.

But with Nellie it was different. She heard what her father did not. Fragments of gossip drifted to her ears, which paled her cheek and set her heart beating fast. Occasionally Dan bore her news he had picked up at the store, or from the boys of the neighbourhood, who were not slow in talking of the things they had heard from their elders. Nellie longed to tell her father, that he might he able to answer some of the charges which were made. Several times had she determined to do so. But when she had looked upon his calm face, noted his white hair, and gazed into his clear, unsuspecting eyes, her resolution always took wings and disappeared. Then she would surprise her father by twining her arms about his neck and giving him a loving kiss.

Two weeks had now passed since the accident, and Parson John was rapidly improving. Two Sundays had he missed from church, something which had happened but once before in his long ministry in the parish. Winter was passing, and signs of spring were beginning to be seen and felt. The snow was steadily disappearing from the hills, and the fresh, balmy air drifted gently in from the south with its exhilarating influence.

It was Saturday night, and Parson John was looking forward to the morrow, when he could take his accustomed place at the parish church. He and Nellie were sitting quietly in the little room, when Mr. Larkins entered with the mail. The postman had met with an accident on the icy road, and was several hours behind time. Usually Dan went to the office, but on this occasion Mr. Larkins was down to the store, and had brought along the mail for both families.

"Letters for us!" Nellie exclaimed as Mr. Larkins entered. "Oh, how good of you to bring them!"

"Stay, stay," insisted the parson, as the worthy neighbour was about to retire and leave them to the enjoyment of their letters. "You have not had a whiff with me for a long time, and here is a new church-warden waiting to be broken in."

"But, I shall interrupt you," Mr. Larkins replied.

"No, no, not in the least."

"Well, then, I agree to remain for one smoke, if you will promise that you will read your letters, and not mind me. I see a new magazine on the table which looks very tempting."

Ensconced in a large easy-chair, he was soon deeply immersed in the fascinating pages, at the same time endeavouring to enjoy the long "church-warden," which was not altogether to his taste. Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the cutting of envelopes and the occasional rattle of the letters.

Mr. Larkins was startled by a sudden cry of astonishment, and looking quickly up he saw the parson sitting erect in his chair, clutching a sheet of paper in both hands, and staring at it in a dazed manner. Nellie at once sprang to his side to ascertain the cause of the commotion.

"Look! Look!" he cried, thrusting the paper into her hand. "It's from the Bishop! Read it, quick, and tell me what it means! Am I losing my senses, or is this only a dream, or a joke?"

Although Nellie's face was pale as she sprang to her father's side, it went white as death as she quickly scanned the missive, drinking in almost intuitively every word and its meaning. Then, flinging it aside with an impatient gesture, she placed her arms about her father's neck, and tried to soothe him.

"Father, father, dear, never mind," she pleaded. But her voice faltered, and she simply clung to him like a tender vine to some sturdy oak.

"Girl! girl!" demanded the parson, "what does it mean? Do you know anything? Tell me, quick!"

"Father, father," urged the maiden, "calm yourself. Don't get so excited."

"But, do you know anything about this? Tell me at once!"

"Yes—-"

"Yes, what? Don't stop. Go on," and the old man leaned forward so as not to miss a single word.

"Oh, father, give me time," sobbed Nellie. "I will explain all. What will Mr. Larking think?"

"True, true. What will he think?" and the parson turned towards his visitor.

"You will pardon me, sir, for acting so strangely. But I am much upset. There, please, read this. A letter from my Bishop, full of the most remarkable utterances a man ever wrote. My people turned against me! My people charging me with being a common thief! No, no! It cannot be true! Read it—read it for yourself," and with a trembling hand he passed over the letter.

"My dear Westmore," so began the epistle. "What is the trouble between you and your parishioners in Glendow? I have recently received a petition signed by twenty of your people asking for your removal, on the following grounds:

"First. That you are too old to do the work; that many parts of the parish are being neglected, and that a young man should take your place, who will be able to hold the flock together.

"Second. That you alone attended the deathbed of an old man, William Fletcher by name, who was possessed of a considerable sum of money, all in gold. The money, it is well known, was always kept in the house in a strong, iron box. The night you attended him the house was burned to the ground, but no trace of the money has since been found. Even at the time you were suspected by some, as it was well known you were much involved in some mining transactions out in British Columbia and badly in need of money to carry on the work. But not until shortly after the fire, when at a public auction you purchased a large homestead and paid down the amount, four thousand dollars, in cash, did the whole parish suspect that something was radically wrong.

"Third. That on your way to attend a funeral at Craig's Corner on a recent Sunday, you engaged in a horse-race with one, Tim Fraser, a most notorious character.

"Such in brief is the purport of the petition which now lies before me, and I am asked not only to remove you, but to make a thorough investigation concerning the whole affair. I am much grieved at this matter, and cannot understand it at all. You have ever been looked upon as a faithful priest in the Church of God, and I believe you will be able to explain everything to the satisfaction of all. At first I thought it well that you should write to me. On second consideration, however, I think it better to make a visit to Glendow, and see if the matter cannot be quietly settled. I do not wish this trouble to get abroad or into the newspapers. I wish to have the people of the parish come before me, one by one, that I may hear what they have to say, and thus be in a better position to form a sound judgment. I have written the petitioners to this effect, and have told them that I shall be in the vestry of the church next Thursday, morning and afternoon, to hear what they have to say. I have also written to your wardens—whose names, by the way, do not appear on the petition— stating the case, that they may give due notice throughout the parish."

Silently Mr. Larkins returned the letter, not knowing what to say.

"What does it all mean?" questioned the parson, looking keenly into his neighbour's face. "Am I only dreaming, or is it a joke?"

"Neither, father, dear," Nellie replied, taking a seat near his side, and tenderly clasping his hand, which was trembling with excitement. "It is all real, ah, too real! The people have been saying these things."

"What, girl! Do you mean to tell me that these things have been talked about ever since the night of the fire?" demanded the parson.

"Yes, father, some have been saying them."

"And you knew about these stories, Nellie?"

"Y—yes, some of them."

"And you never said a word to me! Never gave me a hint of warning, but let me remain in ignorance the whole of this time!"

"We thought it was for the best, father. Don't get angry with me. I suppose I should have told you, but I thought the gossip would soon cease."

"You thought so, did you! Girl, I didn't think you would deceive me—your father, in his old age! Have all my friends turned against me? Yes, yes, and even she, of my flesh and blood—the darling of my heart for whom I would die! God help me!"

"Father, father, dear! don't talk that way," pleaded Nellie. "You will break my heart. You don't know what I have suffered. Day and night the trouble has been with me. I loved you so much that I wished to spare you the worry. I thought it was for the best, but now I see I should have told you. You have friends, true and tried, who do not believe a word of these charges."

The parson who had been gazing straight before him, rested his eyes upon his daughter weeping by his side. His face softened, and the old look returned.

"Forgive me, darling," he said, placing his arm tenderly about her. "I have wronged you and all my dear friends. But, oh, the blow is so sudden! I hardly know what to think. What can I do?"

For over an hour they sat there and discussed the matter. As Mr. Larkins at length rose to go, he looked into Parson John's face so drawn and white, and almost cursed the wretches who had brought such trouble upon that hoary head.



Chapter XX

The Overseer

The service at the parish church Sunday morning was largely attended. Word had spread rapidly that the Bishop would arrive during the week, and it was confidently expected that the parson would touch on the question from the pulpit.

"Guess we'll git something to-day," one man remarked to another, near the church door.

"Y'bet," was the brief response.

"D'ye think the parson will say anything about old Billy?"

"Mebbe he will, an' mebbe he won't."

"But I think he will. The parson likes to hit from the pulpit when no one kin hit back."

"Is that what brought you to church to-day? You seldom darken the door."

"Sure! What else should I come fer? I'm not like you, Bill Flanders, wearin' out me shoes paddin' to church every Sunday. I kin be jist as good a Christian an' stay at home. I kin read me Bible an' say me prayers there."

"I'm not denying that, Bill, but the question is, Do ye? I reckon ye never open yer Bible or say yer prayers either fer that matter. If you were in the habit of doin' so you never would hev signed that petition to the Bishop."

"Well, I'm not alone in that. There's Farrington, a church member an' a communicant, who headed the list, an' if he——"

"Hold, right there, Bill. Farrington never signed that paper."

"Yes, he did."

"But, I say, he didn't. He promised to do so, but jist after he sent it away he made a fuss an' said that he had fergotten to do it."

"Ye don't say so!" and Bill's eyes opened wide with surprise. "But are ye sure?"

"Sartin. I had it from Tom Fletcher himself, who feels rather sore about it. It is well known that Farrington wanted the parson removed on the plea of old age, but didn't want that clause in about Billy's death. The Fletchers insisted, however, an' in it went."

"The devil! Well, it's queer, I do declare."

Just then the bell rang out its last call, and they entered the church with others.

Parson John looked greyer than usual as he conducted the service and stood at the lectern to read the Lessons. But his voice was as sweet and musical as ever, though now a note of pathos could be detected. His step was slow and feeble as he mounted the pulpit, and a yearning look came into his face as he glanced over the rows of heads before him.

"Remember my bonds," was the text he took this morning, and without a note to guide him, he looked into the numerous faces, and delivered his brief message. A breathless silence pervaded the sanctuary as he proceeded to draw a picture of St. Paul, the great champion of the faith, in his old age enduring affliction, and appealing to his flock to remember his bonds. The arm of the parson still in the sling, and the knowledge the people had of the reports circulated about him, added much to the intense impressiveness of the scene. For about fifteen minutes he spoke in a clear, steady voice. Then his right hand clutched the top of the pulpit, while his voice sank and faltered. "Brethren," he said, straightening himself up with an effort, "St. Paul had his bonds, which were hard for him to bear; the bond of suffering, the bond of loneliness, and the bond of old age. You, too, have bonds, and will have them. But how sweet to know that your friends and loved ones will remember your bonds, will understand your sufferings, peculiarities, and will sympathize with you, and be considerate. I, too, have bonds: the bond of unfitness for my great work, and the bond of old age. These two shackle and impede me in the Master's cause. But I ask you to think not so much of these as of another which binds me soul and body—it is the bond of love. I look into your faces this morning, and think of the many years I have laboured among you in evil report and good report. I have learned to love you, and now that love is my greatest bond, for it enwraps my very heart. When parents see their darling child turn against them, their love to him is the hardest bond to bear, because they cannot sever it. They remember him as a babe in arms, as a little, clinging, prattling child. They think of what they have done and suffered for his sake and how the cord of love has been silently woven through the years. My love to you is my greatest bond, and, though some may grow cold, some may scoff, and some repudiate, never let the lips of any say that your rector, your old grey-headed pastor, now in his fourth and last watch, ever ceased in his love to his little flock."

There was a diversity of opinion among the listeners to these pathetic words, which was quite noticeable as the congregation filed out of the church. The eyes of some were red, showing the intensity of their emotion, while others shone with a scornful light.

"The parson fairly upset me to-day!" blurted out one burly fellow. "I heven't been so moved sense the day I laid me old mother to rest in the graveyard over yonder."

"Upset, did ye say?" replied another, turning suddenly upon him. "What was there to upset ye in that?"

"Why, the way the parson spoke and looked."

"Umph! He was only acting his part. He was trying to work upon our feelings, that was all. Ah, he is a cute one, that. Did ye hear what he said about the bond of love? Ha, ha! That's a good joke."

There was one, however, who felt the words more deeply than all the others. This was Nellie, who sat straight upright in her pew, and watched her father's every movement. She did not shed a tear, but her hands were firmly clasped in her lap and her face was as pale as death. As soon as the service was over she hurried into the vestry, helped her father off with his robes, and then supported his feeble steps back to the Rectory. She made no reference to the sermon, but endeavoured to divert her father's mind into a different channel. She set about preparing their light midday repast, talked and chatted at the table, and exhibited none of the heaviness which pressed upon her heart. Only after she had coaxed her father to lie down, and knew that he had passed into a gentle sleep, did she give way to her pent-up feelings. How her heart did ache as she sat there alone in the room, and thought of her father standing in the pulpit uttering those pathetic words.

Thursday, the day of the investigation, dawned bright and clear. Not a breath of wind stirred the air. It was one of those balmy spring days when it is good to be out-of-doors drinking in freshness and strength.

The Bishop had arrived the night before, and had taken up his abode at the Rectory. About ten o'clock the following morning, he wended his way to the church, there to await the people of Glendow. Some time elapsed before any arrived, and not until the afternoon did most of them come. Tom Fletcher was among the first, and at once he made his way into the vestry, and confronted the Bishop.

The latter was a small-sized man, clean shaven, and with his head adorned with a mass of white, wavy hair. His face and massive forehead bore the stamp of deep intellectuality. He was noted as a writer of no mean order, having produced several works dealing with church questions, full of valuable historic research. His every movement bespoke a man of great activity and devotion in his high office. His eyes were keen and searching, while his voice was sharp and piercing. "Sharp as a razor," said several of his careless clergy. Merciless and scathing in reference to all guile, sham and hypocrisy, he was also a man of intense feeling, sympathetic, warm-hearted, and a friend well worth having.

He was poring over certain church registers as Tom Fletcher entered, and, glancing quickly up, noted at once the man standing before him. He rose to his feet, reached out his hand to Fletcher and motioned him to a chair.

"Fletcher is your name, you say—Tom Fletcher," and the Bishop ran his eyes over several lists of names before him.

"Yes, sir, that's my name."

"You signed the petition, I see."

"Yes."

"Well, then, you must know about these charges which are made against your rector. Now, as regards the first. It states here that he is neglecting certain parts of the parish. Is that true?"

"I understand so."

"Where?"

"Oh, I hear he hasn't been to Hazel Greek an' Landsdown Corner fer over two years."

"Any other place?"

"No, I guess them's the only two, but it seems to me to be a purty serious matter fer sich places to be neglected so long."

"Ah, I see," and the Bishop looked keenly into Tom's face.

"You're not a vestryman, Mr. Fletcher?" he remarked.

"No, never was one."

"Did you ever attend an Easter Monday meeting?"

"No, never had time."

"Do you take a church paper?"

"Should say not. Much as I kin do is to pay fer the newspaper."

"But, of course, you read the Synod Journal, which is freely distributed. It contains each year a report from this parish."

"Yes, I read it sometimes, but there isn't much to interest me in that."

"But surely, Mr. Fletcher, you must have read there that Hazel Creek and Landsdown Corner were cut off from Glendow over two years ago, and added to the adjoining parish, and are now served by the rector of Tinsborough. They are more accessible to him, and the change has been a good one."

"What! Ye don't tell me!" and Tom's eyes opened wide with surprise. "I never knew that before. The parson never said a word about it."

"Did you ever ask him? Or did you inquire why he never went to those places?"

"No. I thought——"

"I don't want to know what you thought," and the Bishop turned sharply upon him. "Explanations are not needed now. You have proven conclusively that you know nothing about the church affairs in this parish, and care less. According to these registers I find that you never come to Communion and never contribute one cent to the support of the church. But we will let that pass, and consider the next charge made here."

"What, about Uncle Billy?"

"Yes. You know the charge made, and as you signed the petition you must have some substantial proof to bring forth."

Tom twisted uneasily on the chair and twirled his hat in his hands. He was mad at the way the Bishop had cornered him, and at what he had said. But he was also afraid of this man who knew so much and seemed to read his inmost thoughts. He began to dread the questions which he knew would come, and longed to be out of the vestry. He was not feeling so sure of himself and wished he had stayed away.

"The second charge made here," continued the Bishop, "is of a most serious nature. It is to the effect that your rector stole the gold from William Fletcher the night the house was burned, and used some of it to buy a farm. Is that what it means?"

"I—I—don't know," Tom stammered, now on his guard, and not wishing to commit himself.

"But you should know," the Bishop insisted. "You signed the paper, and I ask you what it means, then?"

"The gold is gone, sir, an' the parson was the only one there with Uncle Billy. Besides, where did he git all of that money?"

"But that's no proof. I want facts, and I expect you to give me some."

"That's all I know," was the surly response.

"And upon the strength of that suspicion you signed this paper?"

"Yes."

"And you would swear that you know nothing definite?"

"Y—yes—that's all I know."

The Bishop remained silent for a short time, musing deeply.

"Do you know," he at length remarked, "that you have put yourself in a very awkward position?"

"How's that?"

"You have virtually said that Mr. Westmore stole that gold. If you cannot prove your statements you have laid yourself open to prosecution for defamation of character. Your rector, if he wished, could bring in a charge against you of a most serious nature."

"I never thought of that."

"No, I know you didn't. You may go now, but remember the position in which you have placed yourself."

Tom waited to hear no more. He fairly sprang to the door, his face dark and frightened. He spoke to no one, neither did he notice the sturdy form of Mrs. Stickles standing there waiting to be admitted into the vestry.

The Bishop looked up as the door opened and Mrs. Stickles entered. She always proved the dominating factor wherever she went, and what her size could not accomplish was well supplied by her marvellous tongue. The Bishop winced as she seized his hand in a vise-like grip.

"It's real glad I am to set me eyes on ye," she exclaimed. "I heven't seen ye in a dog's age, an' I'm mighty pleased ye look so well. How did ye leave the missus, bless her dear heart? My, I'm all het up, the church is so hot," and she bounced down upon the chair Fletcher had recently vacated.

The Bishop's eyes twinkled, and his care-worn face brightened perceptibly. His exalted position made him a lonely man. There was so much deference paid to him. People as a rule were so reserved in his presence, and showed a longing to be away. "Many people desire a high office," he had once said, "but very few realize the responsibility and loneliness it entails. So much is expected of a Bishop, and his slightest words and acts are criticized. I often envy humble workmen, smoking and chatting together. They have many things in common. They may say what they like, and much heed is not given to their remarks."

It was therefore most refreshing to have this big-hearted woman seated before him acting and talking so naturally, without the least restraint, the same as if she were in her own house.

"You have come, I suppose," said the Bishop, "in connection with this petition," and he pointed to the paper lying on the table.

"Oh, that's the thing, is it?" asked Mrs. Stickles, as she leaned forward to get a better view. "Be very keerful of it, Mr. Bishop. Don't scratch it or bring it too close to the fire."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked the Bishop.

"What do I mean? Don't ye know that's the work of the devil, an' there's enough brimstone in that paper to burn us up in a jiffy. It's soaked through an' through, so I advise ye to handle it keerful."

"So you think these charges in this petition are not true? What can you say to the contrary, then?"

"What kin I say to be contrary? I kin say a good deal, an', indeed, I hev said a good deal. When I heered about that pertition my buzum jist swelled like the tail of an old cat when a hull bunch of yelpin' curs git after her. But I didn't sit down an' weep an' wring me hands. No, sir, not a bit of it. Me an' Sammy went to them in authority, an' sez I to them church-wardens, sez I, 'will ye let that old parson, the Lord's anointed, be imposed upon by them villains?'"

"'What kin we do?' sez they.

"'Do!' sez I.' Do what the Lord intended ye to do, fight. Didn't the Holy Apostle say, 'Quit ye like men, be strong?' 'Git up a pertition,' sez I, 'an' git every decent, honest man in Glendow to sign it, an' send it to the Bishop. Tell 'im?' sez I,' that the parson isn't neglectin' his parish an' that yez hev full confidence in 'im.'

"'We don't like to do it,' sez they.

"'Why not?' sez I.

"'We don't like to stir up strife,' sez they. ''Tisn't good to hev a disturbance in the church. We're men of peace.'

"'Peace,' sez I, 'an' let the devil win? That's not the trouble. Yer afeered, that's what's the matter. Yer too weak-kneed, an' hain't got as much backbone as an angle worm.' That's what I said to 'em, right out straight, too. Now kin ye tell me, Mr. Bishop, why the Lord made some people men instead of makin' 'em chickens fer all the spunk they've got?"

"But, Mrs. Stickles," replied the Bishop, who had been staring in amazement at the torrent of words, "what has this to do with the question before us?"

"I'm comin' to that, sir, only I wanted to tell ye my persition. When I found that them in authority wouldn't make the start, I concluded that the Lord meant me to do the work. So me an' Sammy an' our old horse Queen travelled up an' down the parish fer three solid days, with this result," and, drawing a paper from a capacious pocket, she laid it on the table. "Thar 'tis, read it fer yerself, an' jedge."

The Bishop's eyes grew a little misty as he read the words written there, and noted the long list of names testifying to the worthiness of the rector of Glendow.

"Mrs. Stickles," he at length remarked, and his voice was somewhat husky, "the Lord will reward you for what you have done. While others have been simply talking, you have been acting. Like that woman of old, you have done what you could, and this deed of love, believe me, will be remembered in the parish of Glendow for generations to come. You may go now; you have done your part."



Chapter XXI

Decision

With his chair drawn tip close to the window, Parson John watched the people as they moved along the road to and from the church. He recognized them all, and knew them by their horses when some distance away. As clothes betray a person when his face is not observable, so do horses and sleighs on a country road. They seem to be vital parts of the owners, and to separate them would be fatal. No one could imagine Mrs. Stickles seated in a finely-upholstered sleigh and driving a high-mettled horse. She and Sammy, the home-made pung and the old lean mare plodding onward, were inseparably connected with the parish of Glendow. The parson's face brightened as he saw this quaint conveyance shaking along the road. In Mrs. Stickles he knew he would have one champion at least, though all the others should turn against him. Team after team he watched, but none turned aside into the Rectory gate to say a word to the old grey-headed man, sitting before the window.

The hours dragged slowly by, and still he sat there. Nellie went quietly about her household duties, but a great weight kept pressing upon her heart. Her father was so quiet, took no interest in his books, and did no writing. Often she would stop and watch him as he sat there. He seemed to be greyer than usual; his head was more bent, and his face wore a sad, pained expression. "If he would only utter some word of complaint," thought Nellie, "it would not be so hard. But to see that dumb, appealing look is almost more than I can bear."

Though very quiet, Parson John was fighting a hard, stern battle. His eyes were often turned towards the road, but his thoughts were mostly upon other things. Over his desk hung two pictures, and occasionally his gaze rested upon these. One was that of a sweet-faced woman, who looked down upon him with gentle, loving eyes-such eyes as Nellie inherited.

"Ruth, Ruth," he murmured, "my darling wife. Thirty-five years since I brought you here as a fair young bride. Thirty-five years! We knew not then what lay before us. We knew not then how one must walk for years by himself and at last tread the wine-press alone."

His eyes drifted to the other picture hanging there—the Master kneeling alone in Gethsemane. Long he looked upon that prostrate figure with the upturned face. He thought of His agony in the Garden, the betrayal, desertion and suffering. "I have trodden the winepress alone," he softly whispered as into his face came a new light of peace and strength. Opening a well-worn volume lying on the desk he read again that Garden scene, when the Master knelt and fought His terrible battle. Forgotten for a brief space were his own trials as he pored over that sacred page. How often had he read that story, and meditated upon every word, but never before did he realize the full significance of the scene. "Wonderful, wonderful," he murmured again, as he reverently closed the Book. "Thank God—oh, thank God for that life of suffering and sorrow! He knows our human needs. He trod the winepress alone, and must I, His unworthy servant, expect to escape? So, my Father, do with me what is best. 'Not my will, but Thine be done.'"

At this moment Nellie entered the room. She noticed the changed expression upon her father's face, and, crossing to where he was, stood by his side.

"Do you feel better, father?" she asked.

"Yes, dear. My heart was very heavy a short time ago, but it is lighter now. I seem to see my way more clearly. The darkness has passed, and a new peace has come to me. Will you sing something for me, dearie?"

"Certainly, father. What shall it be?"

"Your mother's favorite hymn. The one she sang just before she left us."

Taking her seat at the little harmonium, Nellie gently touched the keys, and in a clear, sweet voice sang the old favourite hymn:

"The sands of Time are sinking, The dawn of Heaven breaks, The summer morn I've sighed for. The fair, sweet morn awakes. Dark, dark has been the midnight, But dayspring is at hand, And glory, glory dwelleth In Emmanuel's land."

Softly she sang the whole hymn through, her father leaning back in his chair with closed eyes, drinking in every word and sound.

"I're wrestled on towards Heaven, 'Gainst storm and wind and tide; Lord, grant thy weary traveller To lean on Thee as guide."

"That's what I must do now, Nellie. 'Lean on Him as guide.' Oh, it gives me such comfort. And He will guide right; we must never doubt that."

When the Bishop had finished his investigation in the vestry, he sighed as he closed his small grip and left the church. Slowly he walked up the road lost in deep thought. There were numerous things which disturbed his mind. He had listened to what the people had to say, but everything was so vague. Yet there was some mystery, he believed, connected with the whole matter. That missing gold, the Rector's need of money and then the purchase of the farm were still shrouded in darkness. Thinking thus he reached the Larkins' house where he had been invited to tea.

"It will help Nellie to have the Bishop here," Mrs. Larkins had said to her husband, "for she has enough care at the present time."

Keenly she watched the Bishop's face as he came into the house, hoping to obtain some clue to his thoughts. To her the trouble at the Rectory was as her own, and she longed to know the outcome of the investigation. At first she dreaded the thought of having the Bishop to tea. Had she not often heard of his sharp, abrupt manner? Anxiously she scanned the tea-table, with its spotless linen, with everything so neatly arranged, and wondered what she had omitted. Her fears were soon dispelled, however, for the Bishop made himself perfectly at home. It was a pleasure to him to sit at the table with these two true, honest souls, of whom he had heard much from Parson John. They were so natural, and made no effort to be what they were not.

"You must be tired, my Lord," said Mrs. Larkins, "after this trying day."

"Not so much tired as puzzled," was the reply.

"And did you get no light on the matter?"

"Not a bit. Look at all those notes I took—not worth the paper on which they are written. Everything is hearsay—nothing definite. And yet there is some mystery attached to the whole affair. I am sorely puzzled about that missing gold and where the Rector obtained the money to buy that farm."

"And didn't he tell you, my Lord?" asked Mrs. Larkins, pausing in the act of pouring the tea.

"No, he will not tell me. He is as silent as the grave. When I pressed him to speak and thus clear himself, he begged me with tears in his eyes not to urge him. 'It's honest money,' he said, 'which purchased the farm, but I can tell you no more now.'"

"You have heard, my Lord, that he is involved in some mining transaction out in British Columbia. It is now in litigation and the parson is contributing all be possibly can."

"Yes, I learned of that to-day, and it only tends to complicate matters. I cannot believe that your Rector had anything to do with that gold. But oh, if he would only explain. Are you sure that that box is not still among the ashes and ruins of the old house?"

"I am certain it is not there," Mr. Larkins replied. "We have searched the place thoroughly, and even sifted the ashes, but all in vain. Not a trace could we find of the box or the gold."

The evening was somewhat advanced as the Bishop bade the Larkins good-night and made his way over to the Rectory. He found Parson John seated in a deep chair, gazing silently before him. Nellie was sitting near reading, or trying to read. She greeted the Bishop with a bright smile, drew up a chair for him to the pleasant fire, and took his hat and coat.

"Have I kept you up, Nellie?" he asked. "Your father must be tired."

"No, no, my Lord," she replied. "It is not late yet. But you must be tired."

"A little, my dear. The day has been somewhat trying."

From the time he had entered Parson John had kept his eyes fixed full upon the Bishop's face with a mute, questioning look which spoke louder than words. "What have you found out?" He seemed to be saying. "What stories have they been telling about me? Who have been my foes and friends?"

"The vestry was converted into quite a court-room to-day," said the Bishop, reading the questioning look in the parson's face. "There were certainly several lively scenes, especially when Mrs. Stickles made her appearance."

"You have reached a conclusion then, I suppose?" and Mr. Westmore leaned eagerly forward.

"No, not yet. I cannot give my decision now. I want to think it carefully over, and shall notify you by letter."

"I thank you, my Lord, for the trouble you have taken in the matter," and the parson resumed his former position. "But I have been thinking deeply since hearing these reports concerning me, and my mind is made up as to the course I shall pursue."

"Indeed, and in what way?" queried the Bishop.

"To-morrow morning I shall hand to you my resignation of this parish."

The effect of these words was startling, and Nellie's face went very white as she glanced quickly at her father.

"Do you mean it?" inquired the Bishop.

"Yes, my Lord. I have not come to this decision without much thought, prayer, and struggle. I have been too blind. I forgot how old I am, though God knows my heart is as young as ever. It's only natural that the people of Glendow should desire a change; a man who will infuse new life into the work, and draw in the wandering and indifferent ones. May God forgive me that I did not think of it before!"

His head drooped low as he uttered these words, and the pathos of his voice denoted the intensity of his feelings. It was impossible not to be much moved at the figure of this venerable man, this veteran warrior of his church, without one word of complaint, willing to relinquish all, to give up the command to another, that the Master's work might be strengthened. The Bishop was visibly affected, although he endeavoured to conceal his emotion.

"Westmore," he replied, "I always believed you to be a noble man of God, though I never knew it as I do to-night. But where will you go if you leave Glendow? How will you live?"

"I am not worrying about that. He who has guided me all of these years; He, who has given me strength for the battle, will not forsake me now in my fourth and last watch when I am old and grey-headed. My brother and his wife at Morristown have for years been urging us to pay them a long visit. We will go to them, and stay there for a time. Perhaps the Master will open to me some door in His vineyard that I may do a little more work ere He take me hence. I have no means of my own, but the parish owes me six months' salary, and no doubt the people will gladly pay it now to be rid of me."

"Why not sell that farm you purchased?" suggested the Bishop. "It should bring a fair price, and the money would keep you for some time. I cannot place you on the Superannuated list at present, but there may be a vacancy soon and the money from the sale of the farm will keep you until then."

"I can't sell the place, my Lord, it is impossible."

"But you bought it; it is yours."

"It's not mine to sell! It's not mine to sell!"

The look upon the old man's face and the pathos of his words restrained the Bishop from saying more on the subject.

"And so you think you must go?" he remarked after a painful silence.

"Yes, I see nothing else to do."

"But remember all have not turned against you. See this list," and the Bishop handed over the petition Mrs. Stickles had given him.

Eagerly the parson read the words, and scanned the names scrawled below.

"And did Mrs. Stickles do this?" he asked.

"Yes. She went up and down the parish for three days."

"God bless the woman!" murmured Mr. Westmore. "What a comfort this is to me; to know that all have not deserted me. I did not expect it. But it will not change my mind. My eyes have been suddenly opened to my own inability to do the work. Another will do much better. I've explained everything to you, my Lord, that I can explain, and about that horse-race, too. It is better for me to go."

"Father," said Nellie, "let us go to Uncle Reuben's for a month or so. You need a rest, and a vacation will do you good. Perhaps then you will see things differently."

"Capital idea!" exclaimed the Bishop. "It's just the thing! Go to your brother's and stay there for a month or two."

"But what about the parish? It will be left vacant the whole of that time. If I resign a new Rector can take charge at once."

"Oh, I will arrange for that," responded the Bishop. "There is a young man fresh from college who will be ordained shortly. I will send him here during your absence. We will thus give the people a change, and then, no doubt, they will be glad enough to have you back again."

Parson John sat for some time in deep meditation, while Nellie watched him with an anxious face. The clock in the room ticked loudly, and the fire crackled in the hearth.

"Very well," he assented at length with a deep sigh. "If you think it best, my Lord, that this should be done I shall not oppose your wish. But I am firmly convinced that it will be just the same as if I resigned. When once the new man comes and begins the work, the people will not want their old Rector back again. But, nevertheless, it will be all for the best. 'My times are in His hands,' and I feel sure that ever 'underneath are the Everlasting Arms.'"



Chapter XXII

In the Deep of the Heart

It did not take long for the news of Parson John's intended departure to spread throughout Glendow.

Tongues were once more loosened and numerous conjectures made.

"Guess the Bishop found things pretty crooked," remarked one, "an' thinks it high time for the parson to get out."

"I've thought the same myself," replied another. "The parson's been dabblin' too much in furren affairs. As I was tellin' my missus last night, we never know what will happen next. When them as is leaders goes astray, what kin be expected of the sheep? I've given a bag of pertaters each year to support the church, but dang me if I do it any more!"

But while some saw only the dark side and believed the parson to be guilty, there were others who stood nobly by him in his time of trial. Various were the calls made, some people driving for miles to say good-bye, and to express their regrets at his departure.

Among the number was Mrs. Stickles. She was the first to arrive, and, bustling out of the old broken-down wagon, she seized the parson's hand in a mighty grip as he met her at the gate.

"God bless ye, sir!" she ejaculated. "I'm more'n delighted to see ye. I was on me knees scrubbin' the kitchen floor when Patsy Garlick dropped in an' told me the news. It so overcome me that I flopped right down an' bawled like a calf."

"Dear me! dear me!" replied the Rector. "What's wrong? did you receive bad news? I hope nothing's the matter with Tony."

"Oh, no. I don't mean 'im, sir, though I ain't heered from 'im fer months now. He's so shet up thar in the woods that it's hard to hear. But I feel he's all right, fer if he wasn't I'd soon know about it. No, it's not fer 'im I bawled, but fer you an' the darlin' lass. To think that ye are to leave us so soon!"

"Oh, I see," and the parson placed his hand to his forehead. "Thank you very much for your kindness, Mrs. Stickles, and for what you did concerning that petition. So you have come all the way to bid us good-bye. You must go into the house at once, and have a bite with us. I shall send Dan to give the horse some hay."

"Thank ye, sir. I didn't come expectin' to be taken in an' fed, but seein' as it'll be some time afore I hev sich a privilege agin, I don't mind if I do."

Spring had now come in real earnest. The days were balmy, the sun poured its bright rays upon hill and valley, and the snow disappeared as if by magic. Thousands of streams and rivulets rushed racing down to the river, sparkling and babbling, glad of their release from winter's stern grip. The early birds had returned, filling the air with their sweet music, and the trees, awakened from their long slumber, were putting forth their green buds. Everything spoke of freshness and peace.

But within the Rectory there was an unusual silence. A gloom pervaded the house, which even Nellie's sunny presence could not dispel. Dan had disappeared, and no trace of him could be found. He had departed in the night so silently that even Nellie's ever-watchful ear did not hear his footsteps upon the floor. They knew no reason why the lad should do such a thing, and anxiously they discussed the matter over the breakfast-table. Inquiries were made throughout the parish, which only served to set tongues wagging more than ever.

"I knew when the parson took him in," said one knowing person, "that something 'ud happen. Ye can never tell about sich waifs. They generally amount to nuthin' or worse."

Nellie missed Dan very much. She had come to love the lad with all his quaint ways and dreamy far-away look. He had always been so ready to do anything for her, and often she found him watching her with wondering eyes. In her heart she could not believe that the boy had run away because he was tired of living at the Rectory. She felt sure there must be some other reason, and often she puzzled her brain trying to solve the problem.