"Losin' my u'ligion? Who, me losin' my u'ligion! No, suh."

"Well, aren't you afraid you'll lose it on the Sundays that you spend
out of your meeting-house?"

"Now, Mas' Gawge, you a white man, an' you my mastah, an' you got
larnin'. But what kin' o' argyment is dat? Is dat good jedgment?"

"Well, now if it isn't, you show me why, you're a logician." There was
a twinkle in the eye of George Marston as he spoke.

"No, I ain' no 'gician, Mastah," the old man contended. "But what kin'
o' u'ligion you spec' I got anyhow? Hyeah me been sto'in' it up fu'
lo, dese many yeahs an' ain' got enough to las' ovah a few Sundays.
What kin' o' u'ligion is dat?"

The master laughed, "I believe you've got me there, Uncle Simon; well
go along, but see that your flock is well tended."

"Thanky, Mas' Gawge, thanky. I'll put a shepherd in my place dat'll
put de food down so low dat de littles' lambs kin enjoy it, but'll mek
it strong enough fu' de oldes' ewes." And with a profound bow the old
man went down the steps and hobbled away.

As soon as Uncle Simon was out of sight, George Marston threw back his
head and gave a long shout of laughter.

"I wonder," he mused, "what crotchet that old darkey has got into his
head now. He comes with all the air of a white divine to ask for a
vacation. Well, I reckon he deserves it. He had me on the religious
argument, too. He's got his grace stored." And another peal of her
husband's laughter brought Mrs. Marston from the house.

"George, George, what is the matter. What amuses you so that you
forget that this is the Sabbath day?"

"Oh, don't talk to me about Sunday any more, when it comes to the pass
that the Reverend Simon Marston wants a vacation. It seems that the
cares of his parish have been too pressing upon him and he wishes to
be away for some time. He does not say whether he will visit Europe or
the Holy Land, however, we shall expect him to come back with much new
and interesting material for the edification of his numerous
congregation."

"I wish you would tell me what you mean by all this."

Thus adjured, George Marston curbed his amusement long enough to
recount to his wife the particulars of his interview with Uncle Simon.

"Well, well, and you carry on so, only because one of the servants
wishes his Sundays to himself for awhile? Shame on you!"

"Mrs. Marston," said her husband, solemnly, "you are
hopeless--positively, undeniably, hopeless. I do not object to your
fai