he reader of these indubitable facts; and the Dorcas Society, in a
season of temporary bankruptcy, succeeding a too ample generosity,
did scrub the pews when there was no money for paint. Rumors of our
strenuous, and somewhat unique, activities spread through our parish
to many others, traveling so far (even over seas) that we became
embarrassed at our easily won fame. The book was read and people
occasionally came to church to see the old Peabody Pew, rather resenting
the information that there had never been any Peabodys in the parish
and, therefore, there could be no Peabody Pew. Matters became worse
when I made, very reverently, what I suppose must be called a dramatic
version of the book, which we have played for several summers in the old
meeting house to audiences far exceeding our seating capacity. Inasmuch
as the imaginary love-tale of my so-called Nancy Wentworth and Justin
Peabody had begun under the shadow of the church steeple, and after the
ten years of parting the happy reunion had come to them in the selfsame
place, it was possible to present their story simply and directly,
without offense, in a church building. There was no curtain, no stage,
no scenery, no theatricalism. The pulpit was moved back, and four young
pine trees were placed in front of it for supposed Christmas decoration.
The pulpit platform, and the "wing pews" left vacant for the village
players, took the place of a stage; the two aisles served for exits and
entrances; and the sexton with three rings of the church bell, announced
the scenes. The Carpet Committee of the Dorcas Society furnished the
exposition of the first act, while sewing the last breadths of the new,
hardly-bought ingrain carpet. The scrubbing of the pews ends the act,
with dialogue concerning men, women, ministers, church-members and their
ways, including the utter failure of Justin Peabody, Nancy's hero, to
make a living anywhere, even in the West. The Dorcas members leave the
church for their Saturday night suppers of beans and brown bread, but
Nancy returns with her lantern at nightfall to tack down the carpet in
the old Peabody pew and iron out the tattered, dog's eared leaves of the
hymn-book from which she has so often sung "By cool Siloam's shady rill"
with her lover in days gone by. He, still a failure, having waited for
years for his luck to turn, has come back to spend Christmas in the home
of his boyhood; and seeing a dim light in the church, he enters quietly