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Mr. Pill silenced her at last with a note of impatience approaching a threat, and he drove away to the Corners to make his confession without her. It was Saturday night, and Elder Wheat was preaching as he entered the crowded room. A buzz and mumble of surprise stopped the orator for a few moments, and he shook hands with Mr. Pill dubiously, not knowing what to think of it all, but as he was in the midst of a very effective oratorical scene, he went on.

The silent man at his side felt as if he were witnessing a burlesque of himself as he listened to the pitiless and lurid description of torment which Elder Wheat poured forth–the same figures and threats he had used a hundred times. He stirred uneasily in his seat, while the audience paid so little attention that the perspiring little orator finally called for a hymn, saying:

“Elder Pill has returned from his unexpected absence, and will exhort in his proper place.”

When the singing ended, Mr. Pill rose, looking more like himself than since the previous Sunday. A quiet resolution was in his eyes and voice as he said:

“Elder Wheat has more right here than I have. I want ‘o say that I’m going to give up my church in Douglass and”—- A murmur broke out, which he silenced with his raised hand. “I find I don’t believe any longer what I’ve been believing and preaching. Hold on! let me go on. I don’t quite know where I’ll bring up, but I think my religion will simmer down finally to about this: A full half-bushel to the half-bushel and sixteen ounces to the pound.” Here two or three cheered. “Do unto others as you’d have others do unto you.” Applause from several, quickly suppressed as the speaker went on, Elder Wheat listening as if petrified, with his mouth open.

“I’m going out of preaching, at least for the present. After things get into shape with me again, I may set up to teach people how to live, but just now I can’t do it. I’ve got all I can do to instruct myself. Just one thing more. I owe two or three of you here. I’ve got the money for William Bacon, James Bartlett and John Jennings. I turn the mare and cutter over to Jacob Bensen, for the note he holds. I hain’t got much religion left, but I’ve got some morality. That’s all I want to say now.”

When he sat down there was a profound hush; then Bacon arose.

“That’s man’s talk, that is! An’ I jest want ‘o say, Andrew Pill, that you kin jest forgit you owe me anything. An’ if ye want any help come to me. Y’re jest gittun’ ready to preach, ‘n’ I’m ready to give ye my support.”

“That’s the talk,” said Councill. “I’m with ye on that.”

Pill shook his head. The painful silence which followed was broken by the effusive voice of Wheat:

“Let us pray–and remember our lost brother.”

* * * * *

The urgings of the people were of no avail. Mr. Pill settled up his affairs, and moved to Cresco, where he went back into trade with a friend, and for three years attended silently to his customers, lived down their curiosity and studied anew the problem of life. Then he moved away, and no one knew whither.

One day, last year, Bacon met Jennings on the road.

“Heerd anything o’ Pill lately?”

“No; have you?”

“Waal, yes. Brown told me he ran acrost him down in Eelinoy, doun’ well, too.”

“In dry goods?”

“No, preachun’.”

“Preachun’?”

“So Brown said. Kind of a free-f’r-all church, I reckon from what Jedge told me. Built a new church, fills it twice a Sunday. I’d like to hear him, but he’s got t’ be too big a gun f’r us. Ben studyun’, they say; went t’ school.”

Jennings drove sadly and thoughtfully on.

“Rather stumps Brother Jennings,” laughed Bacon, in his leonine fashion.