view. I'd
rather have it now, I think, than build all the churches in
Christendom."

The moonlight revealed the friendliness in her eyes. He could not
fight down a new thrilling faith in his gift, in himself, in his
strength to stand straight though he should fail again.

"You'd have found it by yourself," she said. "If you'd really been a
quitter, if it hadn't been in you, you couldn't have found it, even
through him. But I know how you feel. I feel the same way toward him.
_Isn't_ he the dear, funny little man?"

And that opened a fertile and profitable field. Jonathan's ears must
have burned a long while that night.

CHAPTER VIII

CERTAIN PLOTS

Three good fairies had their heads together. One was an astute banker
with a mouth delinquent borrowers hated to see, one was a woman who was
known to be wise and one was a dinky little man with red whiskers.

"The question before the house," said Jim Blaisdell, "is, are we
justified in playing politics to bolster up a young man we're afraid
can't stand on his merits? _I_ don't fancy pulling wires--in church
matters, that is."

"The question," said Mrs. Jim, "is no such a thing. It is, whether
we're to let that insufferable Dick Holden give us another St.
Christopher's?"

"Or to help make a strong fruitful life?" amended Jonathan.

"I can't quite see Davy as strong," said Jim, "though he is paying his
debts. But Dick certainly is getting to be a conceited duffer. The
ayes," he sighed, "seem to have it. The next question is ways and
means. Old Bixby's method in St. X looks good to me. A conditional
contribution--what do you say?"

"How much?" inquired the practical Mrs. Jim.

Jim took out an envelope, did sums in subtraction and division and held
out the result to his wife. She took it from him, did a sum
herself--in multiplication--and exhibited that result to him.

"Woman," he cried, "would you rob me? I'm no Standard Oil."

"It's the least I can possibly consider," she answered him firmly.
"You can't expect to play good fairy without paying for the privilege.
Now, Mr. Radbourne, what will you do?"

Jonathan, too, took out an envelope, wrote slowly a row of figures,
scratched it out, wrote another and handed it doubtfully to Mrs. Jim.

"Will that do," he inquired, "for a starter?"

Mrs. Jim gave him a special smile. "_That_ is something like." She
waved Jonathan's figures under her husband's nose. "There, Mr.
Pinchapenny! Are