CHAPTER I.

"WIFE, we had a most eloquent sermon this afternoon from Brother Beghard, in behalf of Father Chimpanie's colony," said Parson Trueberry, entering the sitting-room of the parsonage one Sabbath P. M., and seating himself in the rocking-chair with quite an animated expression on a thin, wan, intellectual face. "It was really a moving account of that suffering people, and one that calls strongly upon the churches for aid in their behalf. I had no idea there was so much suffering and destitution existing in our happy and Christian country! Brother Beghard has already raised contributions by representing this case to the different churches he has visited; and I do think our people showed evidence of interest, and will be inclined to take the matter up. I gave out notice for a meeting this evening in the vestry, at which our Brother will lay before us some additional statements; and then he will make an appeal for aid here. The ladies will be interested. Can't you try and get out to hear him, my dear? The babe will sleep."

Mrs. Trueberry, a slight, delicate-looking young woman of some twenty-eight years, with a babe of six or eight months in her arms, replied: "I hardly think Carrie will do to leave, Warren. I should like to hear Brother Beghard; but baby isn't well enough to leave with Margaret. If the ladies become interested, Miss Susan Piousmind can head any benevolent movement. You know I have little time for such, however much I might wish to engage in them, though I shall do all in my power to aid any really charitable object. But come, let us have tea, my dear; you look pale and tired. Where is Mr. Beghard? I thought he was coming home with you."

"He went home with Deacon Piousmind to take tea; but I suppose he will be back with me again after evening service. And I think it probable that he will remain a few days, especially if my people get interested in this cause; he hinted as much. We have a great deal of company, Caroline." And Mr. Trueberry cast a look upon the worn, slender woman who filled the position which was no sinecure: viz., that of a minister's wife.

"I know it, Warren; but mustn't complain VOL. LXIV.-45

if the coming of these ministers gives you now and then a day's rest. This supply was indeed a blessing, for you know how sick you were Friday with that nervous headache, and the Sunday's second sermon unfinished. But come; tea is waiting." And, transferring the baby to the cradle, and summoning Margaret, the little maid of all work, a girl of fourteen, she preceded her husband to the little diningroom adjoining.

The tea-table was handsomely spread, for little Mrs. Trueberry was a faultless housekeeper, and, after a grace, she poured tea and passed his cup to her tired, jaded-looking husband.

"Where's Edward?" asked the Parson, glancing to the unfilled high chair at his right hand, where his little five year old son usually sat-little Neddie, the sunbeam of the household, who had subsided into something of boyish dignity since the advent of Miss Carrie, his baby sister.

"I don't know, I'm sure. It's unusual for him to stop after service. I think he must have gone home with some of the boys," replied Mrs. Trueberry. "We have two empty seats at our table-Neddie's and Mr. Beghard's." For the table had been laid for four. "I'm so glad you had this supply to-day, Warren! It'll give you a little leisure this week; your last sermons have been written under too much pressure." For the thoughtful wife had a memory of the days of depression and nights of mental toil under which her student, scholarly husband had of late striven throughout several clouded weeks.

"Yes, it is a little lightening of the load, Caroline"-and the young minister's brow grew anxious, for Parson Trueberry was a young man, scarce thirty-five, though his grave face, his reflective mind, and thoughtful, practical sermons seemed to proclaim him of much maturer age. "I suppose it's wrong—a temptation of the Evil One, perhaps-but I can't help thinking sometimes, and it grows upon me, that my labors here are not so blessed as they might be. I seem to get dragged down deeper and deeper in the Slough of Despond every day. I cannot write as I used to; my sermons are a weight upon my mind. It isn't the fault

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of my people, though there's that trouble I waded through when I first came here; I cannot quite forget that yet."

The trouble" referred to by the young minister was a stout resistance which, in the first days of his settlement over his parish in Wheatley, he had met with from one stubborn old elder of the church, Deacon Giles, whose word had hitherto been, like the laws of the Medes and Persians, unalterable; and the rule of whose creed, particularly on the points of "foreordination" and "election," had been rather a stumbling-block in the path of more liberal-minded professors. Hence it was not strange that the new young minister who succeeded old Parson Powers, possessing somewhat less strict views than his stern, old-school Calvinistic predecessor, had been stoutly contended by Deacon Giles. With such epithets as "heretic," and "Free-willer," and "Armenian" had he been opposed; but, for once, the church, escaping from under the rule of their hard deacon, had shown disregard of his prejudices; and, unanimous in the choice of their new minister, had pressed him to the acceptance of their "call." And so, six years before the date of our story, young Warren Trueberry came among them, and was ordained and installed over his first parish, in which he had labored faithfully up to that period, and in which he would have been well content to live and die but for the hard face and continued harder opposition of the stern old deacon, who had never relented from his first prejudices and bitterness. And often, when Mr. Trueberry was tired and dispirited, as many a young minister has been before him, he would recur to his one great trouble, as he did this night at the tea-table.

"No, I cannot seem to forget that, as I ought to, wife!" he continued. "I can't seem to think of Deacon Giles with the feeling I ought to possess as a Christian pastor. It is not that I have laid up any ill will against him; but he tries me so, wife, with his speeches. Only this afternoon, coming out of the church, on the steps I heard him say to Mr. Coggshall: Another beggar come to drain us. Wall, I'm glad we 've got the heathen at home this time-purty near us, too! But where's the Home Mission Society, that it don't take care of 'em, and not be a drainin' every poor country parish that has a hard struggle to support its own minister?' He's continually flinging out in that way, wife!"

Oh, well, never mind old Deacon Giles, Warren!" said the minister's wife, soothingly. "He's an old man, remember, and you mustn't

forget the failings and infirmities of the aged. But about this new charitable object. I was so busy when Mr. Beghard was relating the condition of these people that I heard but little of it. They are really in a suffering condition, then?" And she strove to divert her husband's mind.

Recalled from a contemplation of his own troubles, the minister replied: "Yes, I had no idea of such a state of things! Brother Beghard has statements of their condition that he will read before the meeting this evening-a private letter from Father Chimpanie himself. You see, this Father Chimpanie is a converted Romanist, who has emigrated from Canada to the valley of the great West, and there has gathered about him a colony of converts like himself, mostly from the French Catholics. They have formed a little settlement, built themselves cabins, a school-house, and were about putting up a little church for worship, when the great drought of last year cut off their crops; and now they are not only without funds, but are suffering for clothing, food, and, in short, are in a very destitute state. Father Chimpanie is sending letters for aid to the various churches in the land, regardless of sect, and I hope something tangible will be done for their relief. Brother Beghard tells me that his own purpose in traversing the country to solicit aid is purely from philanthropic motives, as he has long been retired from the ministry on account of his ill health, and has been living on his little farm in Pennsylvania; but that, hearing of the condition of Father Chimpanie's colony, and coming into possession of this letter he bears with him, portraying their sufferings, he resolved to go out and make appeals in the different churches in their behalf. I hope our people, despite what Deacon Giles broaches regarding their 'struggle to support their own minister,' will feel to do something in this cause!" And the minister's face glowed with benevolence.

"Certainly, it is a worthy object!" said his wife. "We must do what we can; the widow's mite was accepted and blessed, you know, my dear."

"Yes, wife, we must do something. The text this afternoon was this passage: 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' You ought to have heard the sermon. Brother Beghard must have been a talented and eloquent minister in his day, before his health broke down. He has the bronchitis, my dear."

"I dare say it was a fine sermon, and I should have liked to hear it. I hope to get

out to meeting with the spring weather. Baby is teething, and is not strong yet, but I hope she will grow better soon."

"Nor is the mother strong, either," the delicate woman might have added, but she did not. Devoted in her love for her husband, and realizing fully the many requirements of her position, like the self-denying, true wife that she was, she resolved to intrude no desponding thoughts upon his mind.

"But ah, here comes Neddy!" she exclaimed, as just then their boy made his appearance from the keen, winter, outer air, his chubby cheeks all aglow, and his blue eyes bright as stars with animation. "Where has my tardy little son been?" she asked with a fond smile, as the little fellow mounted to his high chair, and commenced unfolding his napkin.

"Oh, mother, I went home with Charley Smith, and up to his grandpa's, Deacon Piousmind's, and heard all about the Chinkapins!"

"The Chinkapins, my son?" And an expression of grave wonder overspread the minister's face, as he looked upon the sparkling eyes that beamed out under Master Edward's careless curls.

"Yes, papa, the folks way off ever so far, that the minister preached about, and I heard him telling you about up in your study before the bell rang. Charley says they 're named Chittygongs, but I knew better; he only said it for fun. They're Chinksapins, ain't they father?" And the bright, roguish face was upturned to a grave one.

"No, my son; they're Father Chimpanie's people," replied the minister, quietly, while Mrs. Trueberry, stifling a laugh which was prompted by her own keen appreciation of the ridiculous, helped the little fellow to bread and butter.

"Well, Chin-Chimpanie people, thenthough my name did sound like it," protested Neddy, taking a huge mouthful, and continuing the information gathered in the company of his little friend Charley as soon as he had masticated it. "I heard the minister up to Charley's grandfather's say they hadn't anything to eat where these folks live. Only think, ma! little boys as big as I without any bread and butter! and no trowsers, nor frocks, nor anything but rags to wear in the cold weather! And their fathers can't get any work to do to earn money, and their mothers can't get any cloth to make 'em clothes of. And Charley's mother and Aunt Susan said folks here must send 'em money and clothing, ma; and mayn't I send all my frocks but this one to some little

Chinka-I mean little Chimpanie boy?" exclaimed the excited little fellow.

And what will Master Neddy have left to wear himself?" said his mother, with a smile. "Oh, I can wear this one all the time!" answered Neddy, glancing down with especial affection to his neat velvet frock, with bright gilt buttons, the work of Mrs. Trueberry's skilful fingers.

"Ah, that's rather questionable benevolence, I'm afraid, to want to send away the old clothes so that you may wear the new ones yourself, my son," was the reply.

The boy dropped his head over his plate, with enthusiastic visions of wearing his best. frock every day fading from his eyes; but, after swallowing a large mouthful, he turned to his father, exclaiming :

"Papa, I don't want you ever to go off and be a missionary, same as I heard you tell ma once you wanted to be !"

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'Why, my son ?" asked the parson.

"Becos' I'm 'fraid ma wouldn't have any new dresses, nor Carrie any new cunning little stockings, nor I any new frocks. I don't get so many as Charley Smith does, now, though!" he added. "He's got a new one. And what do you think Charley said to-day? He said: 'Everybody could get more pay than a minister! His father sells oxen and great big loads of hay, and gets ever so much money for 'em, and we don't get any, only what the people give papa for preaching.' Charley said he wouldn't be a minister when he grows up, nor I wouldn't, either, papa!"

"Ah, the loaves and fishes already!" said the minister, laying his hand on the boy's curly head. "But what was that I read to you the other day about the good Jesus? The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has not where to lay his head.' You haven't forgotten that our Saviour didn't think about pay for his preaching?"

Little Edward's eyes dropped for a moment, and then he lifted them with a charming frankness, to say: "Well, papa, I did tell Charley that I'd rather have my papa, if he was a poor minister, than his papa with all his money, and horses, and oxen, for mine was the best."

With a smile, Mrs. Trueberry gave the signal for rising from the table, and, re-entering the sitting-room, released little Margaret from her station by the cradle, while the minister went up to his study to spend the hour before the evening meeting in contemplation and prayer.

But when, later, little Margaret had cleared

away the tea-table, and gone out on a visit to her own home in the village, and Neddy had said "Our Father" and "Now I lay me down to sleep," and slumbered in his little crib, and the minister had departed at the second ringing of the bell to the crowded meeting, where the eloquent Rev. Timothy Beghard was urging the imperative claims of the destitute Chimpanie colony, then, the little, care worn Mrs. Trueberry, sitting in her low chair beside her fretful babe's cradle, and reverting to the days when she was a happy, care free maiden in her father's home, and contrasting that life with her present one, with its shifts, its pinchings, and the contrivings of making household expenses meet on the salary of "four hundred a year and the parsonage," was it a wonder that, though loving her husband truly as she did, faithful Christian woman though she was, side by side with the text the minister had preached from that day-"It is more blessed to give than to receive"-rose another, "Bear ye one another's burdens," and her overcharged, tired heart found a little relief in a quiet fit of weeping?

This was not a weakness that Caroline Trueberry indulged in often; for, though burdened like Martha of old with "many cares, " still the minister's little wife was brave-hearted and ready-handed; yet there are moments when such give way, and yield to depression, as did she that evening, sitting beside her babe's cradle with only her own sad thoughts for compauions.

CHAPTER II.

In the large square parlor of Deacon Piousmind's house, over which his eldest unmarried daughter, Miss Susan, presided, were congregated the female portion of Parson Trueberry's parish, having there gathered agreeable to the appointment promulgated at the Sabbath evening meeting, to take into consideration the ways and means of devising aid for the distressed of Father Chimpanie's colony in the valley of the great West.

Miss Susan Piousmind, be it known, was a spinster of uncertain age, and the leader of all benevolent movements in the church and parish. If a Sewing Circle for "the dissemination of knitting work and the propagation of scandal" as such societies have been defined-was gotten up, straightway the office of president devolved upon Miss Susan; was a benevolent project afloat, the same worthy lady stood

sponsor to it; did a widowed missionary, with broken-down health and jaundiced liver, return to his native clime to look about for a second helpmeet to transfer, upon his recuperation, to the land of the Orient, Miss Susan busied her compassionate heart with assisting such "brothers" to their desires. It was even whispered that she had actually refused such an offer tendered to herself; and this rumor Wheatley people were inclined to credit, from the fact that the spinster had cast her own "eye single with matrimonial intent," in preference to the needy "brother," upon a stout widower near by, whose broad, well-tilled acres presented a far more enticing aspect to the practical Miss Susan than Indian jungles or Ummerapoora wilds, and whose three untamed children enlisted her sympathies in lieu of little idol-worshipping Burmese beyond the water. Be this

as it may, Miss Susan had reached her fortieth year still arbitress of her own single destiny, though the stout widower, Abijah Holden, was yet unmarried; and on the afternoon of which we write, the Tuesday succeeding the Sabbath on which the eloquent Reverend Timothy Beghard, from Pennsylvania, had so urged the claims of the suffering Chimpanies, she surveyed with satisfaction the two score of ladies who filled her large parlor, ready to engage in the new benevolent enterprise.

Various methods for presenting their charities most effectually had already been discussed, until finally Miss Susan decided that the most practicable would be the filling of a large box with clothing, drygoods, groceries, et cetera, et cetera, and to forward said well-filled box, per the express line, directly to the colony, which decision she proceeded to lay before the ladies as soon as assembled, settling everything in her own dominant manner.

"We can each contribute some articles of clothing-dresses, skirts, basques, shawls, or whatever we choose to send, whatever we can spare, you know, ladies; and your husbands will give from their wardrobes, and children's clothing will be very acceptable, also, and do these poor creatures a sight of good; and then we had better select a committee to visit the gentlemen with a paper for subscriptions,,and also another to call at the stores and solicit contributions. All our trades ought to give something-a piece of cotton, a calico dress, shoes, stockings, or anything they choose, if they don't want to give money. We shouldn't object to both, should we, Mrs. Andrews?"

The lady addressed, Mrs. Captain Andrews, wife of the principal storekeeper in Wheatley,

elevated her head with a full consciousness of her station, and replied that "she presumed the Cap'n wouldn't be behindhand; she 'd venture to subscribe five dollars at once for him, and the committee might go to the store and get as much more on account." Whereupon Miss Susan glanced round with a triumphant air, approving Mrs. Andrews' benevolent offer. Other ladies, determining not to be outdone by "Mis Cap'n Andrews," immediately signified their approval of Miss Piousmind's plan, and specified the amount of their individual donation, a few volunteering also to specify for their absent husbands; upon which Miss Susan proceeded to nominate the committee, and arrange that the packing of the Chimpanie box should be superintended personally by her sister, Mrs. Robert Sunith, whose house was next door to the paternal homestead, and where all contributions should be handed in. Whereupon many a brain in the gathering hastily took an inventory of the "old clo'es" lying in attics and presses at home, the bestowal of which should establish their reputation for charitableness, and figure "a'maist as gude as new," on the almost nude forms of the distant, needy Chimpanies.

Meantime, amidst the business proceedings of the meeting, it must not be supposed that an ambushed running fire of small talk was not going on. When could not a convention of women transact business, choose committees, ply the knitting or crochet needle between whiles, besides filling in the interstices with a woof of ceaseless chatter? In the "good time coming," when their "rights" are recognized, in legislative halls, what a charming tide of soprano music shall mingle with the deeper bass of "lordly" demagogues, and circle outwardly from the Capitol over the nation!

"Mr. Trueberry offered some excellent remarks last evening. I really thought our little minister showed quite an earnest spirit," said one lady.

"Yes. His wife wasn't out, was she?" inquired another, in a voice modulated on the circumflex accent, after the style commonly called a slur. "Nor here this afternoon, either." "Oh, we mustn't expect too much, Mrs. Perkins," said Miss Piousmind, who had overheard the query and its answer. "The Lord has given us a good little minister; we ought to be thankful for that!" It was doubtful whether this suggestion was not quite as equivocal as Mrs. Perkins', though apparently uttered in the most amiable manner.

"The least I expected was to see Mrs. True

berry interested in this benevolent scheme," ventured a slender, bilious-looking female, with false front, mohair headdress, and guiltless of crinoline.

"Why, Miss Small, don't you know how sick little Carrie has been? And how can Mrs. Trueberry get out at all? I'm sure I shouldn't think you'd expect it of her!"

This exclamation was put up by little Lucy Underwood, usually the slyest and most timid of girls, and, I am sorry to record, the only one among the younger members of the parish by whom the minister's palefaced little wife was appreciated.

"Hum, I did hear the child was teething. Don't misunderstand me, Miss Lucy. I didn't say we ought to expect our minister's wife to be like others, and take the lead in anything, only I did hope to find her a little interested in such a praiseworthy object as this." And Miss Small's biliousness took a darker tint.

But little Lucy Underwood for once was fairly aroused in defence of her assailed friend. "I don't believe Mrs. Trueberry ought to take more upon her than she is able to bear! She is all worn down now with care; and has enough to do, without attending to any of these charitable objects. I've heard her say many times that she is glad there are ladies in the parish who have the leisure to direct the sewing circles and female prayer-meetings, for she must content herself with being helpmeet at home. You don't know anything about the care of children, Miss Small."

This was a home-thrust. Miss Small subsided, though the dark yellow of her visage became green with suppressed rage.

Lucy Underwood's last remark had caught the ear of one in that group, an old lady in a brown silk, queer cap, and glasses, who sat knitting vigorously-an old lady whom all had been surprised to meet in that company-the wife of the obstinate old deacon, Mrs. Giles, or "Aunt Giles," as she was known throughout the parish.

"What's that about Mis Trueberry, my dear?" she asked, thrusting her needle into the knitting sheath at her side, and turning her right auricular organ toward Lucy, for the old lady was slightly afflicted with deafness.

"Nothing, Aunt Giles; only I was remarking to Miss Small that the probable reason of our minister's wife's absence from this meeting is the sickness of little Carrie, the baby," answered Lucy.

"Thought I heern tell 'twas better," said Aunt Giles, in quick, jerky accents.