It was Sunday morning, and for the first time since coming to Rixton Douglas felt discontented. It was a most beautiful day, with not a ripple ruffling the surface of the river. A great peace and quietness reigned everywhere, and yet there was something lacking. He could not remember when he had awakened to the Day of Rest and found himself unable to attend the service of his Church. It did not seem right, so he mused, as he stood in front of the house looking down upon the neglected church, that he should not minister to the people. And yet he realised that it would upset all his plans if he attempted such a thing now.

He strolled over to the rectory, and walked through the fields. How he longed to repair the building and cultivate the land. He pictured to himself the vegetables he might raise, and how the whole place could be made a most delightful spot. With a suitable housekeeper, he could have a happy home, visiting his people, caring for his garden, and with some spare time for reading and study.

Hitherto, Douglas had not thought much about any one other than a paid house-keeper. But now a feeling stole into his heart that he would like to have some one else to grace the rectory—a wife, who would make it a real home. Of all the women he had met, he could not think of one he would care to marry, or who in turn would wish to be his wife. He smiled at this idea, thinking that he was becoming sentimental. To shake off the notion, he walked rapidly across the fields toward the church. He had not visited it before, but viewed it only at a distance. Everything around the building spoke of neglect. The graveyard was thick with bushes, long grass and weeds. He observed several new-made graves, and wondered what clergyman had conducted the funeral services. The church needed painting, and the roof reshingling. He tried the big front door, but found it fastened. Through one of the side windows he was enabled to obtain a partial view of the interior. The ceiling and walls were stained, and in places the plaster had fallen off and was lying on the floor. The sight saddened him, so sitting down under the shade of a big maple tree he gazed thoughtfully at the church. What labour and high ideals had gone into the erection of that building, he mused, and how the whole parish must have rejoiced when it was completed. He pictured the animated 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," Douglas reasoned.

"That's very true," and Jake ran his fingers through his hair. "We would have overlooked sich things if he had been all right as a parson. But he wasn't, fer he used no tact, an' got Si Stubbles down on him, an' so that finished him as fer as this parish is concerned."

"Did all the people follow Mr. Stubbles in disliking the clergyman?"

"Nearly all of them."

"Why was that?"

Jake looked quizzically at his companion before replying. Douglas thought of Joe Benton's action when Stubbles had been mentioned, and his interest was now much aroused.

"I guess ye'll need to understand this parish quite a bit better before ye can git that question answered," Jake explained. "Ye'll have to know more about Si Stubbles, too."

"He rules things here, then?"

"Should say he does."

"So any clergyman who wishes to get along in this parish must keep on the good side of Mr. Stubbles?"

"That's jist it. He must knuckle down to him or git out."

"But why do the people allow that?"

"Allow what?"

"Mr. Stubbles to rule things in such a way?"

"H'm, they can't help it. Why, Si Stubbles owns most of the people in this place, body an' soul. The men work fer him in the woods in the winter time, an' in his mill the rest of the year. They git nearly everything at his store, an' are generally in debt to him, so that's where he has 'em. What Si says goes in this parish, an' any one who bucks him has to git out. Several tried it in the past, but they didn't stay here long. Things got too hot fer 'em. It pays a man to keep on the good side of Si, if he expects to hold on here."

"You must be independent of him, though. You have your farm, and do not look to him for anything."

"Not a bit of it. I'm in his clutches jist as much as the rest of the folks. He buys all of my stuff, an' I haul logs fer him in the winter. It means quite a bit to me. An' besides, if Si should git down on me, why all the rest would do so, too. He's got us all in the same box."

"So, it's chiefly through him, then, that the church is closed in this parish?"

"That's about it."

"But why doesn't some other man come, say a Methodist or Baptist minister? Surely all of the people here do not belong to the Church of England?"

"Most of 'em do, but there's a sprinklin' of Baptists and Methodies, with here an' there a Presbyterian. Their men did come, an' started meetin's. But they didn't stay long when Si once got after 'em. He boasts that he is a loyal member of the Church of England, an' a church warden, so he can't stand any other form of 'ligion."

"Oh, I see," Douglas mused. "It's a case of the dog in the manger."

"Put it any way ye like," Jake replied, as he once more stretched himself out on the grass. "Si Stubbles rules this place, an' I guess will rule it as long as he stays here."

Douglas looked at his watch and rose suddenly to his feet. It was later than he had imagined.

"I'm going for a walk," he said, "and will not be back for dinner."

"Where will ye git anything to eat?" Jake asked.

"Oh, I'll pick up a bite somewhere. But if I don't, I won't starve, as
I had such a good breakfast."

Douglas walked rapidly up the road, for he wanted to be in time for the service at the shoe-maker's, and he had only a quarter of an hour to get there. He saw, in passing, what he supposed was the Stubbles' home. It was a large house with the grounds well kept, and surrounded by fine trees. He observed several people upon the spacious verandah, who watched him as he went by. He longed to see Stubbles, that he might judge for himself what kind of a man he was. Perhaps he was not such a terrible person, after all, and one with a little common sense and tact might handle him all right.

When Douglas reached Joe's place, he was surprised to find the door of his little shop partly open. Peering in, he saw the old man in his accustomed place, with his head buried in his hands. Thinking that he might be sick, Douglas entered and asked him what was the matter. Somewhat startled, Joe lifted his head and Douglas was shocked at the haggard expression, upon his face, and the look of wretched misery in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, laying his hand upon the old man's shoulder.
"Are you ill?"

"Jean's coming home," was the low reply.

"So you told me. Isn't that good news?"

"Ah, but she's coming not as I expected. She's coming home for repairs."

"For repairs! I do not understand."

"Read that, then," and Joe handed him a letter, all soiled with tears.
"It's from Jean herself."

It took Douglas but a few minutes to read the scrawl, and grasp the meaning. It told of failure in the city, and that she was coming home to the care of her parents. It was easy for Douglas to read between the lines, and he knew that more was contained there than appeared on the surface.

"She's coming to-morrow," the old man moaned. "My Jean coming home for repairs!" His body shook from the vehemence of his emotion, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Perhaps she is only sick, and needs home care," Douglas soothed, though in his heart he well knew it was worse than that.

Joe made no reply, but sat very still looking straight before him. His eyes were fixed upon the picture of the Good Shepherd saving the wandering lamb. A struggle was evidently going on in his mind, and it seemed that he needed that scene to help him. At length he rose slowly from the bench, and turned toward a door on the right.

"We will have service now," he quietly remarked. "We would consider it an honour to have you join us."

Douglas followed him through the kitchen into a little room beyond, where Mrs. Benton was sitting rocking herself in a splint-bottom chair. She arose as they entered, and held out her hand to the visitor. She was a small woman, dressed in plain clothes. But Douglas had eyes only for her face which, though wrinkled and care-worn, bore an expression of great sweetness, and her eyes shone with loving sympathy. She had been weeping, but she hastily brushed away her tears with the corner of her apron, as she bade the stranger welcome and offered him a chair.

On a little table rested two well-worn volumes, a Bible and a Prayer Book. Here the shoe-maker took his stand and reverently began to read the service. His voice was low, though distinct, and he seemed to feel deeply every word he uttered. Never had Douglas been so impressed by any service. He knew how the hearts of these two people were bleeding, and yet here they were taking their sorrow to the Master and laying it at His feet.

"Would you mind reading the lesson?" Joe asked, handing Douglas the opened Bible. "That is the chapter," and he placed his finger upon the page. "My eyes seem a bit dim of late."

A feeling of compunction smote Douglas' heart as he took the Book and began to read. What a deceiver he was, and what would these two sincere people think if they knew who he really was? Was he right in coming to Rixton in such a guise? he asked himself. Would it not have been better and more manly to have come in his official capacity instead of as a spy? But the thought of the failure of his predecessors somewhat soothed his troubled conscience. If the majority of the people were like the Bentons, it would be different. There was a disease of some kind in the parish, and as a physician of souls he felt that it was necessary for him to understand what it was before he could expect to effect a cure.

When the service was over, Douglas rose to go.

"Won't you stay and have a bite with us?" Joe asked.

"Please do stay," Mrs. Benton pleaded. "We are lonely to-day, and it is so nice to have you with us."

Knowing that they were sincere in their request, Douglas remained, and joined them in their humble repast. They sat and talked for a long time when the meal was finished, and Douglas learned much about the history of the Benton family, especially Jean. Being the youngest, and the last to leave home, she was very dear to them. No further reference was made to the letter they had received, nor of her home-coming. They dwelt upon her life as a child, and the part she had taken in the Sunday school, and other Church work in the parish. But it was quite easy for Douglas to see that their hearts were almost broken, and the pathetic look in their eyes told more than many words of the thoughts the lips could not express.