Weary though he was, Douglas found it difficult to get to sleep. He thought over the various events of the day, and was not altogether dissatisfied with the results. He had made a beginning, anyway, and he hoped that events would so shape themselves that he might soon be able to get to the heart of the Church trouble, whatever it might be. He had not yet spoken to Jake about the matter, thinking it best to wait for a day or two, or until a favourable opportunity should occur.

Then the music he had heard down by the river kept running through his mind, and, try as he might, he could not silence the sound. He saw again that slight, graceful figure standing near the tree, drawing the bow skilfully across the strings of the violin. Where had she learned to play in such a manner? he asked himself. He was surprised that Rixton could produce such a musician. Was she engaged to that young man? he wondered, and, if so, what was the cause of her strange behaviour when they met? It was late when he at last fell asleep, and he dreamed of a herd of wild cattle chasing a beautiful woman through a big field, while he and Jake were unable to go to her assistance.

When he awoke in the morning the rain was pelting down upon the roof overhead. The sound filled him with a sense of deep satisfaction and brought back childhood days when he had listened to the same music in the little room in his old home. He was glad that it was raining, as he was feeling sore after yesterday's work, and he longed for a little rest from the labour of the hay field. Early though it was, Jake was already astir. He heard him making the fire in the kitchen stove, then the rattle of milk pails, and the bang of the door as he left for the barn. Douglas tumbled out of bed, dressed, and in a few minutes was at the stable.

"What! You here?" Jake asked in surprise, as he paused in the act of picking up a milking-stool.

"Certainly, and why not?" Douglas replied.

"Oh, I didn't expect ye to be up so early, that's all. All the hired men I've ever had waited to be called."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Thought I'd let ye sleep, as ye had a hard day of it yesterday. And, besides, it's rainin', so we can't do much to-day."

"Rain or no rain, tired or not tired, I am going to do my share while I'm here," Douglas quietly remarked, as he picked up a pail and a stool. "I don't want you to favour me in the least, though I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

After breakfast, Jake and Douglas went out into the woodhouse to grind a scythe and a cutter-bar.

"We might as well git them done while it's rainin'," Jake had said, "an' there's nuthin' else we kin do this mornin'."

Douglas turned the stone while Jake did the grinding. He was not new to the job, as he had often done it as a boy. Then, it had been a wearisome task, and it seemed to him that the hired man always pressed as hard as he could upon the stone. But now he enjoyed the task, as it was a change from the pitching of hay.

"Have you many near neighbours?" he presently asked.

"Yes, a few," was the reply. "Sandy Barker lives below me, and Caleb Titus jist above. Of course, there's the corner with a whole bunch of houses. It's pretty well settled all along the river."

"Has Caleb Titus much of a family?"

"Naw. Jist himself an' one daughter, Polly."

"Has he a large farm?"

"Not overly large; though he doesn't attend to it. He works in the woods in the winter time, an' scratches the ground a little in the spring, an' tries to raise something, though he doesn't succeed very well. He sold a piece off the front of his place a few years ago to old Andy Strong, an' got a good price for it, so I heard."

"Who is this man Strong?" Douglas enquired.

Jake lifted the scythe from the stone and felt its edge very carefully with his thumb before answering. He seemed to be pondering something, and a peculiar smile lurked about the corners of his mouth.

"I can't jist tell ye who he is," he eventually replied. "He came off an' on to Rixton for several years until at last he settled down here for good with his daughters."

"How many has he?"

"Two; Nell an' Nan. My, they're beauties, an' the young fellers in the whole parish are about crazy over them, especially Nell. She's a wonder, an' looks after everything, the old man included."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Oh, he's blind as a bat, an' as queer a critter as ye ever sot eyes on."

"In what way?"

"Well, he's an unbeliever, an' has a great deal to say about churches, 'ligion, an' parsons. He's down on 'em all. The young fellers hereabouts git him to talk to them, an' make believe they are mighty interested in his views. That is only their excuse fer visitin' the place, so's they kin meet Nell an' Nan. Ho, ho! it's a great joke. The old boy thinks they're listenin' to him, but they don't remember a word he says."

"Do his daughters favour any of them?"

"Not as fer as I know. They are mighty sensible girls, an' put up with the young fellers comin' to their place because it pleases their dad. He likes to express his views, an' they know it."

"Why is Mr. Strong so much down on churches, religion and parsons?"
Douglas asked.

"I can't tell ye that. He's got a grouch of some kind, though I never heard him say what it is."

"Did he ever go to church?"

"Not him, though I've seen his daughters there. Nell has played the organ at times, fer she's mighty musical. My, ye should hear her play the fiddle! She makes it fairly talk."

"Where did she learn to play so well?"

"From her dad. He was a perfessor, or something like that years ago, though his playin' is pretty shaky now."

Douglas asked no more questions just then, but went on with his work, and meditated upon what he had heard. Perhaps this old man Strong was really the cause of much of the Church trouble in the parish. Jake might be wrong in his opinion about the young men, and they may have been greatly influenced by the words of the blind professor. He longed to see Strong that he might hear what he had to say, and at the same time to meet his daughters. How he was going to do this, he had not the least idea, though he somehow felt that he would have to wrestle with the unbeliever if he intended to make any headway in Rixton. He had won his first step in the parish as a wrestler, but to contend against firmly rooted opinions was a far more difficult undertaking. It would be all the harder if he should find Strong a stubborn, narrow-minded person, unreasonable, and firmly-settled in his views.

When dinner was over, Jake asked Douglas if he would go to the shoe-maker's for him.

"Two of the traces broke on me the other day," he explained, "an' I haven't had time to git them fixed. Ye'll find Joe Benton's place jist beyond the store."

"Shall I wait until they are mended?" Douglas asked.

"Yes, if ye want to, an' if Joe's able to do them to-day. I think he'll do 'em all right, providin' he doesn't git side-tracked on his hobby."

"What's that?"

"It's 'ligion, that's what 'tis. He's great on the Bible an' Church history. He holds service every Sunday in his house, since we've had no parson."

"Do many attend?"

"Naw. Jist him an' his wife, I guess. But Joe's a good, honest feller, an' ye'll like him. But fer pity's sake, keep him off of 'ligion, if ye expect bring them traces back with ye to-day."

Douglas had no trouble in locating the shoe-maker's shop, where he found Joe Benton busy half-soleing a pair of men's boots. He was a man past sixty, grey-haired, and with a smooth-shaven face. His eyes were what arrested Douglas' attention. They were honest eyes, which looked clear and straight into his. There the old man's soul seemed to be shining forth, so expressive were they. Douglas thought he could read in those clear depths an unattainable longing, mingled with an appealing pathos. When he smiled, his whole face was lighted with a remarkable glory, and he appeared no longer a humble shoe-maker, but an uncrowned king. His rude bench was his throne, and the humble shop his royal palace. So it appeared to Douglas, and he wondered if others were affected in the same way.

"Are you Jake June's hired man, the wrestler?" the shoe-maker asked, after Douglas had told him the purpose of his visit.

"Yes, that's who I am," was the reply. "But how in the world did you hear about our wrestling match?"

"Oh, news travels fast in Rixton, especially if Empty Dempster is the carrier."

Douglas sat down upon a bench and observed Joe intently, as he gave the final touch to a shoe in his lap. Many years had passed since he had watched such work, and he recalled the old shoe-maker he used to know when a lad.

"Can you fix the traces to-day?" he enquired. "If so, I might as well wait for them."

"Yes, I'll mend them at once," and Joe put the finished shoe carefully down by its mate. "I'm not rushed this afternoon."

"You are kept busy as a rule, I suppose?"

"Yes, always mending something. I have been doing it for over thirty years now, and there is never any let-up."

"You must get very tired of it at times."

"No, I can't say I do. It gives me plenty of time to think as I sit here alone in my little shop. I often wish that I could mend everything in life as easily as I can a pair of shoes."

"Why, do you find things out of joint?" Douglas queried. "You haven't seen much of the world, I suppose?"

"I don't have to travel to see the world, sir," and Joe paused in his work and looked earnestly into his visitor's face. "I can see the world right in this parish; that is, as much as I want to see of it."

"And you think there are many things here which need to be mended?"

"I certainly do. My heart is heavy all the time over the sad condition of this parish. The church is closed; the bell is never rung; and the rectory is falling into decay. But they are merely outward signs of the real state of the community. The people do not worship any more, and the children never go to Sunday school. With this spiritual sloth has come a great moral decline, and there are all kinds of sins and evil things committed of which we, as a rule, were free years ago."

"What is the cause of all this?" Douglas enquired.

"There are various reasons. The most important, I suppose, is the lack of the right kind of a clergyman, who would understand the people, and be a real leader. If he could win the sympathy of the majority in this parish, the rest might be overcome."

"But didn't you have good men in the past?"

"Oh, yes, we've always had good men in a way. But of late years the ones we had, as I said, didn't understand the people, and as far as I could see didn't try. They knew nothing about the country ways, and considered themselves above their people. They were always looking for some better field, and made no bones of saying so. They used no tact at all."

"But didn't the people try to help and encourage them?" Douglas asked.
He was beginning to feel that Joe was looking all on one side.

"Most of the people did at first, sir, and I think that things would have come around all right if they had been let alone." Joe paused and examined the stitches he had just put in the trace. "But," he continued, "there's an influence in this parish which has to be reckoned with. I'm not going to say what it is, but if you stay here long enough you'll soon find out for yourself."

"And that influence, whatever it is, would make it hard, then, for any clergyman to work here? Is that what I gather from your words?"

"That's just it."

Douglas longed to know what this influence really was, but he felt it would be better not to enquire further just then. No doubt the shoe-maker had some good reason for not telling what he knew. The only thing, therefore, was for him to find out for himself.

"You must miss the services of the Church very much," he at length remarked.

"I do, I certainly do," Joe emphatically replied. "Though I have service in my own house every Sunday morning, yet it doesn't seem just the same as in the House of God."

"Do any of the neighbours come?"

"Not one, though I've often invited them. My wife and I are the only two since Jean left us."

"Is she your daughter?"

"Yes, the youngest, and the last of the girls to go from home. We always had a hymn or two when she was here, for Jean had a fine voice." A far-away look came into the old man's eyes as he uttered these words. There was a gleam of pride, as well, showing how much he thought of this daughter.

"Where is she now?" Douglas asked.

"She's in the city. She's been in the hospital there nigh on to three years, training to be a nurse. We're looking for her home now any day. I hope you'll meet her, sir, for my Jean is a comely girl, and as good as she is beautiful. We have been very lonely without her. She always took such an interest in Church matters, and taught in the Sunday school. The children loved her, and she did so much good. I'm not much use in the place, as I have to stay here all the time just mending things. But, Jean! my, she was a power!"

"May I come to your service next Sunday?" Douglas asked as he rose to go.

Into Joe's eyes leaped a look of pleasure.

"Would you care to come?"

"Indeed I should."

"Can you sing?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then you're doubly welcome. It will be great for us to have a stranger join in our simple service."

As Douglas moved towards the door, his attention was arrested by a picture on the wall of the Good Shepherd rescuing a lamb from a dangerous place. He looked at it for a minute in silence.

"Fine picture, that," Joe remarked, as he rose from his bench and came over to the young man's side. "It means very much to me."

"Yes, I suppose so," Douglas absently replied.

"I was just like that lamb there, once," Joe continued in a voice that was low, yet filled with emotion. "I was the wandering sheep, if ever there was one." Here he paused and gazed intently at the picture. "I like to have it before me as I work. It tells me what I once was, and how much He has done for me. It makes me both thankful and careful, and it gives me a feeling of sympathy for any one who has gone astray."

Douglas walked slowly down the road, wrapped in thought. His conversation with the old shoe-maker had done him a world of good. But Joe's little glimpse of his past life was what affected him most of all. How many other wandering sheep there were in the world, nay, in this very parish, he mused. They were straying, as sheep without a shepherd. Some one must bring them back, and who would that some one be?