not go, as a rule, except when there was a
Congregationalist minister, although she always spoke well of the
Methodists; and the Methodist Elder Witham (the same who took the
Vermifuge) frequently visited at the farm.

"All Christians are good people," Gramp was accustomed to say.

"Well," Gram would reply, placidly, "I cannot help believing that we
(meaning the Congregationalists) are in the right."

The Old Squire's chief objection to the Adventists was, that their
preachers had come into the place uninvited, and, by their zealous
efforts, had caused a considerable number to withdraw from the church,
thus breaking up the Congregationalist Society in that town.

"I do not take it upon me to say who is right and who is wrong on these
great religious questions," the old gentleman used to remark, when the
subject came up. "But I disapprove of sowing the seeds of dissension in
any church." However, he used sometimes to go to hear the Adventists'
ministers.

It was Elder Witham's turn to preach that Sunday. He was a tall, spare
man, and he preached in a long linen "duster." For one I became quite a
good deal interested in the sermon, for the preacher began very
pleasantly by telling us several short anecdotes. Toward the close of
his discourse, he became very earnest and raised his voice quite near
the shouting pitch.

During intermission, there was an attempt made to organize a Sunday
school. The boys and girls were seated in classes in the pews, and
teachers were appointed from the older members of the church.

There was a small Sunday-school library, consisting of quaint little
books with marbled covers. Each of us was permitted to carry home one of
these small volumes; and I recollect that my book that Sabbath was
entitled _Herman's Repentance_.

The Elder rode home with our folks to tea, and Theodora walked with us
boys. There were six or eight others walking with us, the sons and
daughters of neighbors, to whom Theodora kindly introduced me: Georgie
and Elsie Wilbur, very pretty girls of about Ellen's age, also their
brother Edgar, near my own age, and a large, awkward but smiling
youngster, whose name was Henry Sylvester, whom the others called "Bub."
An older boy of rather swaggering manners overtook us on our way, and
began talking patronizingly to me, without an introduction. His name was
Alfred Batchelder. We also overtook a boy named Willis Murch, who had
stopped to sit, waiting for us, on a large rock