t abear to say 'stay.'"

"I MUST have Susan," said Mrs. Smith, putting her arm about the girl. "I
know you can trust her with me."

"Clementina," said Mr. Bell suddenly, "why don't you leave it to the
minister? He'd settle it for the best. Why don't you leave it to him?
Hey?"

"Well, bless my stars," said Mrs. Bell, brightening with relief, "I'd
ought to have thought of that long ago. He WOULD know what was for the
best. I'll ask him to-morrow."

To-morrow was the picnic day.

As Mrs. Smith led the way for Eliph' Hewlitt, the minister left the
group of women who had clustered about him, and walked toward her.

"Sister Smith," he said, in his grave, kind way, "Sister Bell tells
me you want to carry off our little Susan. You know we must be wise as
serpents and gentle as doves I deciding, and"--he laid his hand on her
arm--"though I doubt not all will be well, I must think over the matter
a while. Welcome, brother," he added, offering his hand to Eliph'
Hewlitt.

The little book agent shook it warmly.

"'I was a stranger and ye took me in,'" he said glibly. "Fine weather
for a picnic."

His eyes glowed. To meet the minister first of all! This was good,
indeed. Years of experience had taught him to seek the minister first.
To start the round of a small community with the prestige of having
sold the minister himself a copy of Jarby's Encyclopedia made success a
certainty.

He took the oilcloth-covered parcel from beneath his arm, and handed it
to the minister gently, lovingly.

"Keep it until the picnic is over," he said. "I'm a book agent. I sell
books. THIS is the book I sell. Take it away and hide it, so I can
forget it and be happy. Don't let me have it until the picnic is over.
PLEASE don't!"

He stretched out his arms in freedom, and the minister smiled and led
the way toward the place where a buggy cushion had been laid on the
grass as his seat of honor.

"I will retain the book," said the minister, with a smile, "although I
don't think you can sell the book here. My brethren in Clarence are not
readers. I read little myself. We are poor; we have no time to read.
Except the Bible, I know of but one book in this entire community.
Sister Dawson has a copy of Bunyan's sublime work, 'Pilgrim's Progress.'
It was an heirloom. Be seated," he said, and Eliph' Hewlitt seated
himself Turk-fashion, on the sod.

The minister took the book carefully on his knees. Even to feel a new
book was a pleasure he did n