their chief source of
fear, found Sunday meetings a bore, and a village pastor an unnecessary
luxury.

Indeed, there seemed little need of pastoral admonition in such a town
as Peltonville Center. There was a grimly commonplace and universal
goodness everywhere, and the village was only saved from unconsciousness
of its own perfection by the individual shortcomings of one of its
citizens. Fortunately for the general self-complacence, however, the
necessary revealing contrast was found in him.

Copernicus Droop was overfond of the bottle, and in spite of the
prohibition laws of his State, he proved himself a blessed example and
warning by a too frequent and unmistakable intoxication in public. He
was gentle and even apologetic in his cups, but he was clearly a "slave
of rum" and his mission was therefore fulfilled.

On this first of May, 1898, a number of idle young men sat in a row on
the edge of the store veranda. Some were whittling, some making aimless
marks in the dust with a stick. All leaned limply forward, with their
elbows on their knees.

It was clearly not a Sunday, for the meeting-house was open, and from
time to time, one or perhaps two young women together passed into the
cool and silent room. The loungers at the store let none escape their
notice, and the name of each damsel was passed down the line in an
undertone as its owner entered the church.

A lantern-jawed young farmer at the end of the row slowly brushed the
shavings from his clothes and remarked:

"Thet's the secon' meetin' of the Shekspeare class this month, ain't
it?"

"Yep, an' there'll be two more afore the summer boarders comes up----"

The second speaker would have continued, but he was here interrupted by
a third, who whispered loudly:

"Say, fellers, there goes Copernicus."

All eyes were raised and unanimously followed the shabby figure which
had just emerged from behind the church and now started into the road
leading away from the common toward the north.

"Walks pretty straight fer him, don't he?" snickered the first speaker.

"He's not ben tight fer two days."

"Bet ye a jack-knife he'll be spreein' it fer all he's wuth to-morrow."

Fortunately these comments did not reach the ears of their object, who,
all unconscious of the interest which he inspired, made good his way at
a fairly rapid pace.

Presently he stopped.

With muslin skirts swaying, hair rumpled, and fair young face flushed
with exertion, Phoebe Wis