eting-house," said Mr.
Royden, with a dissatisfied air, driving on. "Although I am not a
church-member, I shall feel obliged to give in proportion with my
neighbors towards the enterprise."

"Is not the old house a good one?" asked Father Brighthopes.

"As good as any, only it is old-fashioned. Our people are getting
ashamed of the high pulpit and high-backed pews, since Mr. Corlis has
been with us. Deacon Dustan, who has some fashionable daughters, and a
farm near the proposed site of the new house, appears to be the prime
mover in the affair."

"He probably views it in a purely business light, then?"

"Yes," said Mr. Royden. "The vanity of his daughters will be gratified,
and the price of his land enhanced. I ought not to speak
so,"--laughing,--"but the truth is, the deacon is the shrewdest man to
deal with in the neighborhood."

"A jolly, good-natured man, I should judge?"

"One of the best! A capital story-teller, and eater of good dinners. But
he has an eye to speculation. He is keen. Mark Wheeler, who is a close
jockey, declares he was never cheated till the deacon got hold of him."

Father Brighthopes shook his head sadly. He was not pleased to pursue
the subject. Presently he began to talk, in his peculiarly interesting
and delightful way, about the great philosophy of life, and Mr. Royden
was glad to listen.

In this manner they passed by the minister's cottage, the old-fashioned
meeting-house and the pleasant dwellings scattered around it; and
finally came to a large, showy white house, shaded by trees, and
surrounded by handsome grounds, which Mr. Royden pointed out as Deacon
Dustan's residence.

A little further on, they came to a little brown, weather-beaten,
dilapidated house, built upon a barren hill. Here Mr. Royden stopped.

"This is one of Deacon Dustan's houses," said he. "Job Bowen, an old
soldier, who lost a leg in the war of 1812, lives here. He is now a
shoemaker. I hope I shall be able to engage his daughter Margaret to
come and live with us. Will you go in, or sit in the wagon?"

"I shall feel better to get out and stir a little," replied the
clergyman.

Mr. Royden tied Old Bill to a post, and, letting down a pair of bars
for his aged friend, accompanied him along a path of saw-dust and rotten
chips to the door.

They were admitted by a bent and haggard woman, who said "good-morning"
to Mr. Royden and his companion, in a tone so hoarse and melancholy as
to be exceedingly painful