e unmistakable ring of cool authority in his voice. Mr. Austin
suddenly realized that he was speaking to his pastor, the Reverend John
Roger Churchill Knight. And as Mr. Austin himself worshipped authority
and always saw to it that in his little sphere his own slightest word
was obeyed, he listened respectfully.

"I think, Mr. Austin, you are mistaken about Seth Curtis. Seth does
not make fun of religion. He merely criticizes churches and their
management. Seth is what in these times we call an efficiency expert.
And it always makes such a man impatient to watch waste of money and
effort.

"Seth must think well of the church for he sends his wife and children.
And no sane man sends what is dearest to him to a place he does not
approve of. Besides, Seth has a very high opinion of you, Mr. Austin."

Which of course had nothing to do with the case. Yet it may have been
this irrelevant, human little touch that settled it. For after a
little more talk Mr. Austin gave in and, figuratively speaking, turned
his face to the wall and hoped to die. And the minister went off to
persuade Seth Curtis that his church needed his services.

And that was not nearly as difficult a matter as Green Valley thought
it was. For Seth had sense and a love of order and economy and the
minister talked to all that was best and wisest in Seth. Though Seth's
head was growing bald and Cynthia's son was just a youngster, yet the
boy seemed to take Seth's heart right into the hollow of his hand and
talk to it as no one but Seth's wife Ruth talked. So to the amazement
of himself and family and all of Green Valley Seth Curtis went into the
church for the very quality in his make-up that his neighbors were in
the habit of ridiculing.

It was amazingly funny, Seth's conversion. But when Green Valley heard
how the minister got acquainted with Frank Burton Green Valley laughed
and laughed and forgot to eat its meals in telling and retelling it.

Frank Burton, besides being, according to his neighbors, a hopeless
atheist, was unlike other Green Valley men in that he had to take a
much earlier train to the city mornings and came home two trains later
than the other men. Grandma Wentworth always said that it was that
difference in Frank's train time that made him so bitter at times.

Frank did, however, have his Saturday afternoons and Sundays, and these
he spent almost entirely with his chickens and garden and strange
assortment of books.