"Sister Russell was not there, of course?"
"So I heard. The preacher didn't stay at her house last night."
"Mrs. Williams called in while you were away. She had just been to sister Russell's."
"And the new preacher didn't stay at her house last night?"
"He must have ridden over from S-- this morning. I am sorry I didn't wait and ask him to come home and stay with us."
"I wish you had. Sister Russell is too sick to have him at her house, if he should go there. Who stayed to class-meeting?"
"Not over half a dozen, and they were all women. I left Bill Taylor and Harry Chester waiting outside for their wives."
"No; and if they did, I should be sorry to have him go there. I wish I had stayed in, and invited him home. But it can't be helped now, and there's no use in fretting over it."
Soon after this, dinner was announced, and the farmer sat down with his family to a table loaded with good and substantial things. He ate and enjoyed himself; though not as highly as he would have done, had not thoughts of the new preacher intruded themselves.
After dinner, Martin took a comfortable nap, which lasted about an hour. He then went out and took a little walk to himself. While standing at the gate, which opened from his farm on to the county road, a man, who lived half a mile below, came along. This man was not a member of any church, and took some delight, at times, in having his jest with professors of religion.
"Fine afternoon, Mr. Ellis," said Martin, as the man stopped.
"Why, no, not much. Only they say that the Methodists about here have all joined the Amalgamation Society."
"Who says so?" inquired Martin, slightly colouring.
"Well, they say it down our way. I thought it was only a joke, at first. But a little while after dinner, Aunt Nancy's Tom came over to my house for some oats and hay for your new minister's horse. He said the preachers were going to stop at the old woman's after this. I half-doubted the rascal's story, though I let him have the provender. Sure enough, as I came along just now, who should I see but the preacher sitting before the door of old Nancy's log-hut, as much at home as if his skin were the colour of ebony. These are rather queer doings, friend Martin; I don't know what folks 'll say."