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“I didn’t mean to have Saul–I didn’t indeed, sir,” said the mother, putting her apron to her eyes.”But Harry he was so bad last night, and the neighbors sort o’ persuaded me into it. Brother Saul does pray so powerful strong, sir, that it seems as though it must do some good some way; and he’s a very comfortable talker too, there’s no denying that. Still I didn’t mean it, sir; and I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” replied the parson gently; and, leaving his accustomed coin on the table, he went away.

Wandering at random through the pine forest, unable to overcome the dull depression at his heart, he came suddenly upon a large bull-dog; the creature, one of the ugliest of its kind, eyed him quietly, with a slow wrinkling of the sullen upper lip.

The parson visibly trembled.

“‘Fraid, are ye?” called out a voice, and the athlete of the breakfast-table showed himself.

“Call off your dog, please, Mr. Long.”

“He aint doin’ nothin’, parson. But you’re at liberty to kick him, if you like,” said the man, laughing as the dog snuffed stealthily around the parson’s gaiters. The parson shifted his position; the dog followed. He stepped aside; so did the dog. He turned and walked away with a determined effort at self-control; the dog went closely behind, brushing his ankles with his ugly muzzle. He hurried; so did the dog. At last, overcome with the nervous physical timidity which belonged to his constitution, he broke into a run, and fled as if for life, hearing the dog close behind and gaining with every step. The jeering laugh of the athlete followed him through the pine tree aisles, but he heeded it not, and when at last he spied a log-house on one side he took refuge within like a hunted hare, breathless and trembling. An old woman smoking a pipe was its only occupant.”What’s the matter?” she said.”Oh, the dog?” And, taking a stick of wood, she drove the animal from the door, and sent him fleeing back to his master. The parson sat down by the hearth to recover his composure.

“Why, you’re most frightened to death, aint yer?” said the old woman, as she brushed against him to make up the fire.”You’re all of a tremble. I wouldn’t stray so far from home if I was you, child.”

Her vision was imperfect, and she took the small, cowering figure for a boy.

The minister went home.

After dinner, which he did not eat, as the greasy dishes offended his palate, he shut himself up in his room to prepare his sermon for the coming Sunday. It made no difference whether there would be any one to hear it or not, the sermon was always carefully written, and carefully delivered, albeit short, according to the ritualistic usage, which esteems the service all, the sermon nothing. His theme on this occasion was “The General Councils of the Church,” and the sermon, an admirable production of its kind, would have been esteemed, no doubt, in English Oxford, or in the General Theological Seminary of New York City. He wrote earnestly and ardently, deriving a keen enjoyment from the work; the mechanical part also was exquisitely finished, the clear sentences standing out like the work of a sculptor,[sic] Then came vespers; and the congregation this time was composed of two, or, rather, three persons; the girl, the owner of the dog, and the dog himself. The man entered during service with a noisy step, managing to throw over a bench, coughing, humming, and talking to his dog; half of the congregation was evidently determined upon mischief. But the other half rose with the air of a little queen, crossed the intervening space with an open prayer-book, gave it to the man, and, seating herself near by, fairly awed him into good behavior. Rose Ray was beautiful; and the lion lay at her feet. As for the dog, with a wave of her hand she ordered him out, and the beast humbly withdrew. It was noticeable that the parson’s voice gained strength as the dog disappeared.

“I aint going to stand by and see it, Rosie,” said the man, as, the service over, he followed the girl into the street.”That puny little chap!”