d scene on
the day of its consecration, and what a crowd must have been present.
He thought, too, of the part it had taken in the life of the community
during the long years it had been standing there; of the baptisms,
weddings, and burials, and how many had been helped by the services in
this, their spiritual home. But now it was deserted, the bell rusting
overhead, and the door securely locked.

For some time Douglas sat there thinking of such things. Then he rose
and moved away. He needed a brisk walk to shake off the feeling of
depression that had taken possession of him. Going home to the house,
he found Jake stretched out comfortably under the shade of an apple
tree. Douglas sat down by his side.

"Been down to the church?" Jake enquired.

"Yes. It's pretty well deserted, isn't it? You must have had several
funerals lately. Who attended the services?"

"Oh, a parson from Mapledale fer two of 'em, an' Joe Benton read the
service over little Bennie Clark."

"You must feel lost without any service in the church," Douglas
remarked.

"Naw, not a bit, though I must say I did like to hear the bell ring. I
hain't been to church fer over three years."

"Why?"

"I didn't like the last parson we had, nor the style of them who set
themselves up as great Christians."

"What about Joe Benton?"

"Oh, he's all right as fer as he's concerned, an' so is his wife. But
what has religion done fer their family, I'd like to know? Their boys
are all wild, an' I've heard stories about the girls since they left
home."

Jake paused and bit thoughtfully at a blade of grass he was holding in
his hand.

"But it ain't the Bentons I'm thinkin' so much about," he continued.
"There are others. Look at Mike Gibband, fer instance, an' him a
churchwarden, too. Why, he swears like a trooper, an' would do a man a
mean trick whenever he could. I could tell ye what he did to poor
widder Stanley."

"What was wrong with the last clergyman you had?" Douglas questioned.

"Well, he was mighty stuck up, an' thought it beneath himself to soil
his nice white hands at anything. You should have seen the way he kept
his barn over there. Why, it was a fright. An' as fer his knowledge
of farmin', he didn't know a thing, and as fer as I could see he didn't
want to. Bless my soul, he couldn't tell a bean from a pea, nor a
carrot from a turnip."

"But a man might not know anything about such things and yet be a good
clergyman," Do