with a
will. Very many were the shrugs and smiles over "Parson Dorrance's Chapel
at 'The Cedars.'" But the chapel was built; and the Parson preached in it
to sometimes seventy-five of the outlaws. The next astonishment of the
Parson's friends was on finding him laying out part of his new land in a
nursery of valuable young fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Then they
said,--

"Really, the Parson is mad! Does he think he has converted all those
negroes, so that they won't steal fruit?" And, when they met the Parson,
they laughed at him. "Come, come, Parson," they said, "this is carrying
the thing a little too far, to trust a fruit orchard over there by 'The
Cedars.'"

Parson Dorrance's eyes twinkled.

"I know the boys better than you do," he replied. "They will not steal a
single pear."

"I'd like to wager you something on that," said the friend.

"Well, I couldn't exactly take such a wager," answered the Parson,
"because you see I know the boys won't steal the fruit."

Somewhat vexed at the obstinacy of the Parson's faith, his friend
exclaimed, "I'd like to know how you can know that beforehand?"

Parson Dorrance loved a joke.

"Neighbor," said he, "I wish I could in honor have let you wager me on
that. I've given the orchard to the boys. The fruit's all their own."

This was the man whom Mercy Philbrick met early in her first summer at
Penfield. She had heard him preach twice, and had been so greatly
impressed by his words and by his face that she longed very much to know
him. She had talked with Stephen about him, but had found that Stephen did
not sympathize at all in her enthusiasm. "The people over at Danby are all
crazy about him, I think," said Stephen. "He is a very good man no doubt,
and does no end of things for the college boys, that none of the other
professors do. But I think he is quixotic and sentimental; and all this
stuff about those niggers at the Cedars is moonshine. They'd pick his very
pocket, I daresay, any day; and he'd never suspect them. I know that lot
too well. The Lord himself couldn't convert them."

"Oh, Stephen! I think you are wrong," replied Mercy. "Parson Dorrance is
not sentimental, I am sure. His sermons were clear and logical and
terse,--not a waste word in them; and his mouth and chin are as strong as
an old Roman's."

Stephen looked earnestly at Mercy. "Mercy," said he, "I wonder if you
would love me better if I were a preacher, and could preach clear,
logical, and ter