Part 3 (1/2)

”Deacon Richards, of course. You know that well enough.”

”What is it now?”

”He won't have any fire in the vestry,” she answered.

”Why not let somebody else take care of the vestry then, if you want a fire?”

”You don't suppose,” was her response, with a chuckle, ”that he'd give up the key to anybody else, do you?”

”I should think he'd be glad to.”

”He'll hold on to that key till he dies,” retorted Aunt Naomi with a sniff; ”and I shouldn't be surprised if he had it buried with him. He wouldn't lose the chance of making folks uncomfortable.”

”Oh, come, Aunt Naomi, you are always so hard on Deacon Richards,” I protested. ”He is always good-natured with me.”

”I wish you'd join the church, then, and see if you can't keep him in order. Last night it was so cold at prayer-meeting that we were all half frozen, and Mr. Saychase had to dismiss the meeting. Old lady Andrews spoke up in the coldest part of it, when we were all so chilled that we couldn't speak, and she said in that little, high voice of hers: 'The vestry is very cold to-night, but I trust that our hearts are warm with the love of Christ.'”

I laughed at the picture of the half-frozen prayer-meeting, and dear old lady Andrews coming to the rescue with a pious jest; it was so characteristic.

”But has anybody spoken to Deacon Richards?” I asked.

”You can't speak to him,” she responded, wagging her foot with a violence that seemed to speak celestial anger within. ”I try to after every prayer-meeting; but he has the lights out before I can say two words. I can't stay there in the dark with him; and the minute he gets me outside he locks the door, and posts off like a streak.”

”Why not go down to his mill in broad daylight?” I suggested.

”Oh, he'd stick close to the grinding-thing just so he couldn't hear, and I'm afraid of being pitched into the hopper,” she said, laughing.

”You must speak to him. He pays some attention to what you say.”

”But it's none of my business. I don't go to prayer-meeting.”

”But it's your duty to go,” she answered, with a shrewd smile that showed that she appreciated her response; ”and if you neglect one duty it's no excuse for neglecting another. Besides, you can't be willing to have the whole congregation die of cold.”

So in the end it was somehow fixed that I am to remonstrate with Deacon Daniel because the faithful are cold at their devotions. It would seem much simpler for them to stay at home and be warm. They do not, as far as I can see, enjoy going; but they are miserable if they do not go.

Their consciences trouble them worse than the cold, poor things. I suppose that I can never be half thankful enough to Father for bringing me up without a theological conscience. Prayer-meetings seem to be a good deal like salt in the boy's definition of something that makes food taste bad if you don't put it on; prayer-meetings make church-goers uneasy if they do not go. If they will go, however, and if they are better for going, or believe they are better, or if they are only worse for staying away, or suppose they are worse, they should not be expected to sit in a cold vestry in January. Why Deacon Daniel will not have a fire is not at all clear. It may be economy, or it may be a lack of sensitiveness; it may be for some recondite reason too deep to be discovered. I refuse to accept Aunt Naomi's theory that it is sheer obstinacy; and I will beard the deacon in his mill, regardless of the danger of the hopper. At least he generally listens to me.

January 20. Hannah came up for me this evening while I was reading to Mother.

”Deacon Webbe's down in the parlor,” she announced. ”Says he wants to see you if you're not busy. 'Ll come again if you ain't able to see him.”

”Go down, Ruth dear,” Mother said at once. ”It may be another church quarrel, and I wouldn't hinder you from settling it for worlds.”

”But don't you want me to finish the chapter?” I asked. ”Church quarrels will generally keep.”

”No, dear. I'm tired, and we'll stop where we are. I'll try to go to sleep, if you'll turn the light down.”

As I bent over to kiss her, she put up her feeble thin fingers, and touched my cheek lovingly.

”You're a dear girl,” she said. ”Be gentle with the deacon.”