in the cordiality of his greeting he literally pulled the
little man through the doorway into the hall, and hurried him up the
stairway to his study in the chamber overhead.

"Thinking of me! Well, now, I never!" exclaimed the deacon, as, assisted
by the parson, he twisted and wriggled himself out of his coat, that he
filled, a little too snugly for an easy exit. "Thinking of me, and among
all these books too--Bibles, catechisms, tracts, theologies, sermons.
Well, well, that is funny. What made you think of me?"

"Deacon Tubman," responded the parson, as he seated himself in his
armchair, "I want to talk with you about the church."

"The church!" ejaculated the deacon in response. "Nothing going wrong, I
hope?"

"Yes, things are going wrong, deacon," responded the parson. "The
congregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good,
strong, biblical, soul-satisfying sermons, I trust."

"Good ones! good ones!" answered the deacon promptly, "never
better--never better in the world."

"And yet the people are deserting the sanctuary," rejoined the parson
solemnly, "and the young people won't come to the sociables, and the
little children seem actually afraid of me. What shall I do, deacon?"
and the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis.

"You've hit the nail on the head, square as a hatchet, parson,"
responded the deacon. "The congregation is thinning. The young people
don't come to the meetings, and the little children are afraid of you."

"What's the matter, deacon?" cried the parson in return. "What is it?"
he repeated earnestly. "Speak it right out; don't try to spare my
feelings. I will listen to--I will do anything to win back my people's
love," and the strong, old-fashioned Calvinistic preacher said it in a
voice that actually trembled.

"You can do it--you can do it in a week!" exclaimed the deacon
encouragingly. "Don't worry about it, parson; it'll be all right, it'll
be all right. Your books are the trouble."

"Books?" ejaculated the parson. "What have they to do with it?"

"Everything," replied the deacon stoutly. "You pore over them day in and
day out; they keep you in this room here when you should be out among
the people,--not making pastoral visits,--I don't mean that,--but going
around among them, chatting and joking and having a good time. They
would like it, and you would like it, and as for the young folks--how
old are you, parson?"

"Sixty next month," answered the pa