"O, yes! I saw him take every drop. And what is more; he smacked his lips, and said it was exquisitely flavoured."
"Here comes the servant again," George said, at this moment. "Come, James! let me fill your glass again. You must drink with me to-night. You've never given me that pleasure yet. Come!—As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb." Thus importuned, Haley held up his glass which George Manley filled to the brim.
"Health and happiness!" the young man said, bowing.
Haley bowed in return, placed the glass to his lips, and took its contents at a draught.
"Bravely done! Why, it seems to go down quite naturally. You were not always a total-abstinence man?"
"No, I was not."—While a slight shadow flitted over his face.
"Welcome back again, then, to a truly social, and convivial spirit!
After this, don't let me ever see you refuse a generous glass."
"What! An empty wine-glass in the hand of young Mr. Incorrigible!
Upon my word!" ejaculated old Mr. Manley, coming up at this moment.
"O, yes, pa! I've conquered him to-night! He couldn't refuse to take a glass of wine with me on this occasion!" the daughter said, in great glee.
"He must take one with me, too, then."
"You must excuse me, indeed, sir," Haley replied—rallying himself, and bracing up into firmness his broken and still wavering resolutions.
"Indeed, then, and I won't."
"O, no. Don't excuse him at all, pa! He drank with me, and then with brother, and now to refuse to drink with you would be a downright shame."
"He has taken a glass with George, too, has he? And now wants to be excused when I ask him. Upon my word! Here, George, tell the servant to come over this way."
The servant came, of course, in a moment or two, with the wine.
"Fill up his glass, George," the father said.
Haley's glass was, of course, filled again.
"Now, my boy!—Here's a health to my children! May this night's happiness be but as a drop to the ocean of delight in reserve for them." Drinking.
"And here's to our father! May his children never love him less than they do now." Drinking in turn.
"Thank you, my boy!"
"And thank you in return, for your kind wishes."
"That wine didn't seem to taste unpleasantly, James?"
"O, no, sir. It is rich and generous."
"How long is it since you tasted wine?"
"About three years."
"Are you not fond of it?"
"O, yes. I like a good glass of wine."
"Then what in the world has made you act so singularly about it?"
"A mere whim of mine, I suppose you will call it. And perhaps it was. I thought I was just as well without it."
"Nonsense! Don't let me ever again hear of this foolishness."
And then the old man mingled with the happy company.
"Come, James, you must drink with me, too," the mother said, a little while afterward.
Haley did not seem unwilling, but turned off a glass of wine with an air of real pleasure.
"You must drink with me, too," went through the room. Every little while some one, with whom the young man had on former occasions refused to drink, finding out that he had been driven from his cold-water resolutions, insisted upon taking a glass with him. Such being the case, it is not to be wondered at that a remark like this should be made before the passage of an hour.
"See! As I live, Haley's getting lively!"
"I think that 'rich and generous wine' is beginning to brighten you up a little," Mr. Manley said, about this time, slapping his son-in-law familiarly upon the shoulder?
"I feel very happy, sir," was Haley's reply.
"That's right. This is a happy occasion."
"I never was so happy in my life! I hardly know what to do with myself. Come! Won't you take some wine with me. I drank with you a little while ago."
"Certainly! Certainly! My boy! Or, perhaps you would try a little brandy."
"No objection," said the young man. And then the two went to the side-board, and each took a stiff glass of brandy.
"That's capital! It makes me feel good!" ejaculated Haley, as he set his empty glass down.
Cotillions were now formed, and the bride and groom took the floor in the first set. Clara felt very proud of her husband as she leaned upon his arm, waiting for the music to begin, and glanced around upon her maiden companions with a look of triumph. But she soon had cause to abate her exultation, for when the music struck up, and the dancers commenced their intricate movements, she found that her husband blundered so as to throw all into confusion. The reason of this instantly flashed upon her mind, for she knew him to be a correct and graceful dancer. He was too much intoxicated to dance! Her woman's pride caused her to make the effort to guide him through the figures. But it was of no use. The second attempt failed signally by his breaking the figures, and reeling with a loud, drunken laugh, through and through, and round and round the astonished group of dancers, thrown thus suddenly into confusion.
Poor Clara, overwhelmed with mortification, retired to a seat, while her husband continued his antics, ending them finally with an Indian whoop, such as may often be heard late at night in the streets, from a company of drunken revellers,—when he sought her out, and came and took a seat by her side.
"Aint you happy to-night, Clara! Aint you, old girl!" he said, in a loud voice, striking her with his open hand upon the shoulder. "I'm so happy that I feel just ready to jump out of my skin! Whoop!—Now see how beautifully I can cut a pigeon's-wing."
And he sprang from his seat, and commenced describing the elegant figure he had named, with industrious energy, much to the amusement of one portion of the company, but to the painful mortification of another. A circle was soon formed around him, to witness his graceful movements, which strongly reminded those present who had witnessed the performances, of a corn-field negro's Juba, or the double-shuffle.
"Come," old Mr. Manley said, interrupting the young man in his evolutions, by laying his hand upon his arm.
"Come! I want you a moment."
"Hel-lel-lel-lo, o-o, there! What's wanting? ha!" he said, pausing, and then staggering forwards against Mr Manley. "Who are you, sir?"
"For shame, sir!" the old man replied in a stern voice. "Come with me, I wish to speak to you."
"Speak here, then, will you? I've no se-se-secrets. I'm open and above board! Jim Haley's the boy that knows what he's about! Who-o-o-oop! Clear the track there!"
And starting away from the old man, he ran two or three paces, and then sprang clear over the head of a young lady, frightening her almost out of her wits.
"There! Who'll match me that? Jim Haley's the boy what's hard to beat! Whoo-oo-oop, hurrah! But where's Clara? Where's my dear little wifie? Ah! there—No, that isn't her, neither. Wh-wh-where is the little jade?"
The whole of this passed in a few moments, with all the drunken gestures required to give it the fullest effect.
Poor Clara, at first mortified, when she saw what a perfect madman her husband had become, was so shocked that her feelings overcame her, and she was carried fainting from the room. O, how bitter was her momentary repentance of her blind folly, ere her bewildered senses forsook her.
As for Haley, he grew worse and worse, until the brandy which he continued to pour down, had completely stupified him, when he was carried off to bed in a state of drunken insensibility; after which, the company retired in oppressive and embarrassed silence.
Sad and lonely was the bridal chamber that night, and the couch of the young bride was wet with bitter, but unavailing tears.
On the next morning, those who first entered the room where Haley had slept, found it empty. Towards the middle of the day, a letter was left for Clara by an unknown hand. It ran thus:
"DEAR CLARA—For you are still dear to me, although you have robbed me of happiness for ever, and crushed your own hopes with mine. For years before I came to this place, I had been a slave to intoxication—a slave held in a fearful bondage. At last, I resolved to break loose from my thraldom. One vigorous effort, and I was free. There yet remained to me a small remnant of a wrecked fortune. With this I abandoned my early home, and fixed my residence here, determined once more to be a man. Temptations beset me on every hand; but while I touched not, tasted not, handled not, I knew that I was safe. But alas for the hour when you became my tempter! O, that the remembrance of it could be blotted from my memory for ever! When, for your sake, I raised that fatal glass to my lips, and the single drop of wine that touched them thrilled wildly through every nerve, I felt that I was lost. Horrible were my sensations, but your tempting voice lured me to sip the scarcely tasted poison; I did so, and my resolution was gone! All that occurred after that is only dimly written on my memory. But I was a madman. That I can realize. When drunk, I have always acted the madman. And now we part for ever! I am a proud man, and cannot remain in the scene of my disgrace. My property I leave for you, and go I know not, and care not, whither—perhaps to die, unlamented, and unknown, and sink into a drunkard's grave. Farewell!"
This letter bore neither name nor date. But they were not needed.
Five years from that sorrowful morning Clara sat by a window in her father's house, near the close of day, looking dreamily up into the serene and cloudless sky. Her face was pale, and had a look of hopeless suffering. Five years!—It seemed as if twenty must have passed over her head, each burdening her with a heavy weight of affliction. O, what a wreck did she present! Five years of such a life! Who can tell their history? She was alone; and sat with her head upon her hand, and her eyes fixed, as if upon some object. But, evidently, no image touched the nerve of vision. Presently her lips moved, and a few mournful words were uttered aloud, almost involuntarily.
"O, that I knew where he was! O, that I could but find him, if alive!"
A slight noise startled her, and she turned quickly. Was it a vision? Or did her long-lost husband stand before her, the shadow of what he had been?
"Clara! Dear Clara!"
In a moment she was clinging to him with a trembling, eager, convulsive grasp. Tenderly did he fold her in his arms, and press his lips to hers fervently.
"Clara! Dear Clara!"
"My own dear husband!" was all she could utter, as she sank like a helpless child on his bosom.
For four years from the night of his wedding, Haley had been a common drunkard, with no power over himself. On the brink of the grave, he was rescued, signed a pledge of total abstinence, and set himself eagerly to work to elevate his condition. One year had sufficed to efface many sad tokens of his degradation, but time could not restore the freshness to his cheek, nor the light to his eye. Then he returned and sought his bride, who still mourned him with an inconsolable grief. A few months produced a happy change in both. But they cannot look back. Over the past they throw a veil,—the future is theirs, and it is growing brighter and brighter. May its clear sky never be darkened!
THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT
"Is there a good fire in the little spare room Jane?" said Mr. Wade, a plain country farmer, coming into the kitchen where his good wife was busy preparing for supper.
"Oh, yes, I've made the room as comfortable as can be," replied Mrs. Wade; "but I wish you would take up a good armful of wood now, so that we wont have to disturb Mr. N—, by going into the room after he gets here."
"If he should come this evening," remarked the husband. "But it is getting late, and I am afraid he won't be here Before the morning."
"Oh, I guess he will be along soon. I have felt all day as if he were coming."
"They say he is a good man, and preaches most powerfully. Mr. Jones heard him preach in New York at the last conference, and tells me he never heard such a sermon as he gave them. It cut right and left, and his words went home to every heart like arrows of conviction."
"I hope he will be here this evening," remarked the wife as she put some cakes in the oven.
"And so do I." remarked Mr. Wade, as he turned away, and went out to the wood pile for an armfull of wood for the expected minister's room.
It was Saturday afternoon, and nearly sundown. Mr. N—, who was expected to arrive, and for whose comfort every preparation in their power to make, had been completed by the family at whose house he was to stay, was the new Presiding Elder of B—District, in the New Jersey Conference. Quarterly meeting was to be held on the next day, which was Sunday, when Mr. N—was to preach, and administer the ordinances of the church. Being his first visit to that part of the District, the preacher was known to but few, if any, of the members, and they all looked forward to his arrival with interest, and were prepared to welcome him with respect and affection.
The house of Mr. Wade was known as the 'minister's home.' For years, in their movements through the circuit, the preachers, as they came round to this part in the field of their appointed labor, were welcomed by Brother and Sister Wade, and the little spare chamber made comfort. able for their reception. It was felt by these honest-hearted people, more a privilege than a duty, thus to share their temporal blessings with the men of God who ministered to them in holy things. They had their weaknesses, as we all have. One of their weaknesses consisted in a firm belief that they were deeply imbued with the genuine religion, and regarded things spiritual above all worldly considerations. They were kind, good people, certainly, but not as deeply read in the lore of their own hearts, not as familiar with the secret springs of their own actions, as all of us should desire to be. But this was hardly to be wondered at, seeing that their position in the church was rather elevated as compared with those around them, and they were the subjects of little distinguishing marks flattering to the natural man.
While Mr. Wade was splitting a log at the wood-pile, his thoughts on the new Presiding Elder, and his feelings warm with the anticipated pleasure of meeting and entertaining him, a man of common appearance approached along the road, and when he came to where the farmer was, stood still and looked at him until he had finished cutting the log, and was preparing to lift the cleft pieces in his arms.
"Rather a cold day this," said the man.
"Yes, rather," returned Mr. Wade, a little indifferently, and in a voice meant to repulse the stranger, whose appearance did not impress him very favorably.
"How far is it to D—?" inquired the man.
"Three miles," replied Mr. Wade, who having filled his arms with wood, was beginning to move off towards the house.
"So far!" said the man in a tone that was slightly marked with hesitation. "I thought it was but a little way from this." Then with an air of hesitation, and speaking in a respectful voice, he added, "I would feel obliged if you would let me go in and warm myself. I have walked for two miles in the cold, an—as D—is still three miles off, I shall be chilled through before I get there."
So modest and natural a request as this, Mr. Wade could not refuse, and yet, in the way he said—"Oh, certainly"—there was a manner that clearly betrayed his wish that the man had passed on and preferred his request somewhere else. Whether this was noticed or not, is of no consequence; the wayfarer on this assent to his request, followed Mr. Wade into the house.
"Jane," said the farmer as he entered the house with the stranger, and his voice was not as cordial as it might have been; "let this man warm himself by the kitchen fire. He has to go all the way to D—this evening and says he is cold."
There is a kind of magnetic intelligence in the tones of the voice. Mrs. Wade understood perfectly, by the way in which this was said, that the husband did not feel much sympathy for the stranger, and only yielded the favor asked because he could not well refuse to grant it. Her own observation did not correct the impression her husband's manner had produced. The man's dress, though neither dirty nor ragged, was not calculated to impress any one very favorably. His hat was much worn, and the old gray coat in which he was buttoned up to the chin, had seen so much service that it was literally threadbare from collar to skirt, and showed numerous patches, darns, and other evidences of needlework, applied long since to its original manufacture. His cow-hide boots, though whole, had a coarse look; and his long dark beard gave his face, not a very prepossessing one at best, a no very attractive aspect.
"You can sit down there," said Mrs. Wade, a little ungraciously, for she felt the presence of the man, just at that particular juncture, as an intrusion; and she pointed to an old chair that stood. near the fire-place, in front of which was a large Dutch oven containing some of her best cream short cakes, prepared especially for Mr. N—, the new Presiding Elder now momently expected.
"Thank you, Ma'am," returned the stranger, as he took the chair, and drew close up to the blazing hearth, and removing his thick woolen gloves, spread his hands to receive the genial warmth.
Nothing more was said by either the stranger or Mr. Wade, for the space of three or four minutes. During this time, the good house-wife passed in and out, once or twice, busy as could be in looking after supper affairs. The lid of the ample Dutch oven had been raised once or twice, and both the eyes and nose of the traveller greeted with a pleasant token of the good fare soon to be served up in the family. He was no longer cold; but the sight and smell of the cakes and other good things in preparation by the lady, awakened a sense of hunger, and made it keenly felt. But, as the comfort of a little warmth had been bestowed so reluctantly, he could not think of trespassing on the farmer and his wife for a bite of supper, and so commenced drawing on his heavy woolen gloves, and buttoning up his old gray coat. While occupied in doing this, Mr. Wade came into the kitchen, and said—
"I'm afraid Jane, that the minister won't be along this evening.
It's after sun-down, and begins to grow duskish."
"He ought to have been here an hour ago," returned Mrs. W., in a tone of disappointment.
"It's getting late, my friend, and D—'s a good distance ahead," remarked the farmer, after standing with his back to the fire, and regarding for some moments the stranger, who had taken off his gloves, and was slowly unbuttoning his coat again.
"It's three miles you say?"
"Yes, good three miles, if not more; and it will be dark in half an hour."
"What direction must I take?" required the stranger.
"You keep along the road until you come to the meeting house on the top of the hill, half a mile beyond this, and then you strike off to the right, and keep straight on."
"What meeting house is it?"
"The D—Methodist Meeting House."
"You are expecting the minister, I think you just now said?"
"Yes. Mr. N—, our new Presiding Elder, is to preach to-morrow, and he was to have been here this afternoon."
"He is to stay with you?"
"Certainly he is. The ministers all stay at my house."
The man got up, and went to the door and looked out.
"Couldn't you give me a little something to eat before I go," he said, returning. "I havn't tasted food since this morning, and feel a little faint."
"Jane, can't you give him some cold meat and bread?" Mr. Wade turned to his wife, and she answered, just a little fretfully, "Oh, yes, I suppose so;" and going to the cupboard, brought out a dish containing a piece of cold fat bacon that had been boiled with cabbage for dinner, and half a loaf of bread, which she placed on the kitchen table and told the man to help himself. The stranger did not wait for another invitation; but set to work in good earnest upon the bread and bacon, while the farmer stood with his hands behind him, and his back to the fire, whistling the air of "Auld Lang Syne," while he mentally repeated the words of the hymn of "When I can read my title clear," and wished that his visitor would make haste and get through with his supper. The latter, after eating for a short time with the air of a man whose appetite was keen, began to discuss the meat and bread with more deliberation, and occasionally to ask a question, or make a remark, the replies to which were not very gracious, although Mr. Wade forced himself to be as polite as he could be.
The homely meal at length concluded, the man buttoned up his old coat and drew on his coarse woolen gloves again, and thanking Mr. and Mrs. Wade for their hospitality, opened the door and looked out. It was quite dark, for there was no moon, and the sky was veiled in clouds. The wind rushed into his face, cold and piercing. For a moment or two, he stood with his hand upon the door, and then closing it he turned back into the house, and said to the farmer
"You say it is still three miles to D—?"
"I do," said Mr. Wade coldly.
"I said so to you when you first stopped, and you ought to have pushed on like a prudent man. You could have reached there before it was quite dark."
"But I was cold and hungry, and might have fainted by the way."
The manner of saying this touched the farmer's feelings a little, and caused him to look more narrowly into the stranger's face than he had yet done. But he saw nothing more than he had already seen.
"You have warmed and fed me, for which I am thankful. Will you not bestow another act of kindness upon one who is in a strange place, and if he goes out in the darkness may lose himself and perish in the cold?"
The peculiar form in which this request was made, and the tone in which it was uttered, put it almost out of the power of the farmer to say no.
"Go in there and sit down," he (sic) answed, pointing to the kitchen, "and I will see my wife, and hear what she has to say."
And Mr. Wade went into the parlor where the supper table stood, covered with a snow-white cloth, and displaying his wife's set of bluesprigged china, that was only brought out on special occasions. Two tall mould candles were burning thereon, and on the hearth blazed a cheerful hickory fire.
"Hasn't that old fellow gone yet?" asked Mrs. Wade. She had heard his voice as he returned from the door.
"No. And what do you suppose? He wants us to let him stay all night."
"Indeed, and we'll do no such thing! We can't have the likes of him in the house, no how. Where could he sleep?"
"Not in the best room, even if Mr. N—shouldn't come."
"No, indeed!"
"But I really don't see, Jane how we can turn him out of doors. He doesn't look like a very strong man, and it's dark and cold, and full three miles to D—."
"It's too much! He ought to have gone on while he had daylight, and not lingered here as he did until it got dark."
"We can't turn him out of doors, Jane; and it's no use to think of it. He'll have to stay now."
"But what can we do with him?"
"He seems like a decent man, at least; and don't look as if he had anything bad about him. We might make him a bed on the floor somewhere."
"I wish he had been to Guinea before he came here," said Mrs. Wade, fretfully. The disappointment, the conviction that Mr. N—would not arrive, and the intrusion of so unwelcome a visitor as the stranger, completely unhinged her mind.
"Oh, well, Jane," replied her husband in a soothing voice, "never mind. We must make the best of it. Poor man! He came to us tired and hungry, and we have warmed him and fed him. He now asks shelter for the night, and we must not refuse him, nor grant his request in a complaining reluctant spirit. You know what the Bible says about entertaining angels unawares."
"Angels! Did you ever see an angel look like him?"
"Having never seen an angel," said the husband smiling, "I am unable to speak as to their appearance."
This had the effect to call an answering smile to the face of Mrs. Wade, and a better feeling to her heart. And it was finally agreed between them, that the man, as he seemed like a decent kind of a person, should be permitted to occupy the minister's room, if that individual did not arrive, an event to which they both now looked with but small expectancy. If he did come, why the man would have put up with poorer accommodations.
When Mr. Wade returned to the kitchen where the stranger had seated himself before the fire, he informed him, that they had decided to let him stay all night. The man expressed in a few words his grateful sense of their kindness, and then became silent and thoughtful. Soon after, the farmer's wife, giving up all hopes of Mr. N—'s arrival, had supper taken up, which consisted of coffee, warm cream short cakes, and sweet cakes, broiled ham, and broiled chicken. After all was on the table, a short conference was held, as to whether it would do not to invite the stranger to take supper. It was true, they had given him as much bread and bacon as he could eat; but then, as long as he was going to stay all night, it looked too inhospitable to sit down to the table and not ask him to join them. So, making a virtue of necessity, he was kindly asked to come in to supper, an invitation which he did not decline. Grace was said over the meal by Mr. Wade, and then the coffee was poured out, the bread helped, and the meat served.
There was a fine little boy of some five or six years old at the table, who had been brightened up, and dressed in his best, in order to grace the minister's reception. Charley was full of talk, and the parents felt a natural pride in showing him off, even before their humble guest, who noticed him particularly, although he had not much to say.
"Come, Charley," said Mr. Wade, after the meal was over, and he sat leaning back in his chair, "can't you repeat the pretty hymn mamma learned you last Sunday?"
Charley started off, without further invitation, and repeated, very accurately, two or three verses of a new camp-meeting hymn, that was just then very popular.
"Now let us hear you say the Commandments, Charley," spoke up the mother, well pleased at her child's performance. And Charley repeated them with only the aid of a little prompting.
"How many commandments are there?" asked the father.
The child hesitated, and then looking up at the stranger, near whom he sat, said, innocently,—
"How many are there?"
The man thought for some moments, and said, as if in doubt—
"Eleven, are there not?"
"Eleven!" ejaculated Mrs. Wade, looking towards the man in unfeigned surprise.
"Eleven!" said her husband, with more of rebuke than astonishment in his voice. "Is it possible, sir, that you do not know how many Commandments there are? How many are there, Charley? Come! Tell me; you know, of course."
"Ten," said the child.
"Right, my son," returned Mr. Wade, with a smile of approval.
"Right. Why, there isn't a child of his age within ten miles who can't tell you that there are ten Commandments. "Did you never read the Bible, sir?" addressing the stranger.
"When I was a little boy, I used to read in it sometimes. But I'm sure I thought there were eleven Commandments. Are you not mistaken about there being only ten?"
Sister Wade lifted her hands in unfeigned astonishment, and exclaimed—
"Could any one believe it? Such ignorance of the Bible!"
Mr. Wade did not reply, but he arose, and going to one corner of the room, where the Good Book lay upon a small mahogany stand, brought it to the table, and pushing away his plate, cup and saucer, laid the volume before him, and opened that portion in which the Commandments are recorded.
"There!" he said, placing his finger upon a proof of the man's error. "There! Look for yourself!"
The man came round from his side of the table, and looked over the farmer's shoulder.
"There! Ten;—d'ye see!"
"Yes, it does say ten," replied the man. "And yet it seems to me there are eleven. I'm sure I have always thought so."
"Doesn't it say ten, here?" inquired Mr. Wade, with marked impatience in his voice.
"It does certainly."
"Well, what more do you want? Can't you believe the Bible?"
"Oh, yes I believe in the Bible, and yet, somehow, it strikes me that there must be eleven Commandments. Hasn't one been added somewhere else?"
Now this was too much for Brother and Sister Wade to bear. Such ignorance on sacred matters they felt to be unpardonable. A long lecture followed, in which the man was scolded, admonished and threatened with Divine indignation. At its close, he modestly asked if he might have the Bible to read for an hour or two, before retiring to rest. This request was granted with more pleasure than any of the preceding ones. Shortly after supper the man was conducted to the little spare room accompanied by the Bible. Before leaving him alone, Mr. Wade felt it his duty to exhort him on spiritual things, and he did so most earnestly for ten or fifteen minutes. But he could not see that his words made much impression, and he finally left his guest, lamenting his ignorance and obduracy.
In the morning, the man came down, and meeting Mr. Wade, asked him if he would be so kind as to lend him a razor, that he might remove his beard, which did not give his face a very attractive aspect. His request was complied with.
"We will have family prayer in about ten minutes," said Mr. Wade, as he handed him a razor and a shaving-box.
In ten minutes the man appeared and behaved himself with due propriety at family worship. After breakfast he thanked the farmer and his wife for their hospitality, and departing, went on his journey.
Ten o'clock came, and Mr. N—had not yet arrived. So Mr. and Mrs. Wade started off for the meeting house, not doubting that they would find him there. But they were disappointed. A goodly number of people were inside the meeting house, and a goodly number outside, but the minister had not yet arrived.
"Where is Mr. N—?" inquired a dozen voices, as a little crowd gathered around the farmer.
"He hasn't come yet. Something has detained him. But I still look for him; indeed, I fully expected to find him here."
The day was cold, and Mr. Wade, after becoming thoroughly chilled, concluded to go in, and keep a look-out for the minister from the window near which he usually sat. Others, from the same cause, followed his example, and the little meeting house was soon filled, and still one after another came dropping in. The farmer, who turned towards the door each time it opened, was a little surprised to see his guest of the previous night enter, and come slowly along the aisle, looking from side to side as if in search of a vacant seat, very few of which were now left. Still advancing, he finally passed within the little enclosed altar, and ascending to the pulpit, took off his old gray overcoat and sat down.