Douglas was very tired and slept soundly that night. When he awoke next morning the rain was beating down upon the roof over his head. It sounded like music to his ears, for it would mean rest that day from the toil of the field. There were several things he wished to do, and the rain was just what he needed. There would be no work in the field, so he would be free to go where he wished.

Jake had been at the meeting the night before and was very talkative.

"What happened to ye when the meetin' was over?" he enquired, as they sat down to breakfast.

"Oh, I waited around a while to watch the speakers and the chairman,"
Douglas replied.

"Did ye ever see a real live archdeacon before?"

"Yes, I have seen several."

"Ye don't tell! Well, that was the first one I ever sot me eyes on one. But, say, what was them things he had on his legs?"

"Gaiters, I think they are called."

"H'm, the same as the Bishop wears, eh? But what are they good fer?"

"They are a sign of his position, I suppose. I really know nothing more about the matter than you do."

"But what's the good of archdeacons, anyway? If they're all like the one we saw last night, I wouldn't give much fer the hull bunch."

"They are supposed to help the Bishop, so I understand."

"Help him, eh? Well, I guess that feller didn't help much in settlin' matters in this parish. Why, he made a mess of the hull affair."

"In what way?"

"Why, don't ye remember how riled he got when he was asked questions?
He put his foot in it, too, when he said that a parson would do fer
Rixton who had been kicked out of St. Margaret's in the city."

"He didn't really say that."

"No, not exactly in them words, but that was what he meant, an' we all took it that way."

"So you think that the archdeacon made it all the harder for the new clergyman by what he said last night, do you?" Douglas asked.

"Sure," Jake replied, as he helped himself to another pancake. "Didn't ye notice the feelin' in the meetin', an' how Si changed? Why, he looked jist like a thunder cloud about to bust. I sartinly do pity the new parson. He's goin' to have a hard time of it, mark my word."

"I had a little talk with Stubbles after the meeting," Douglas quietly remarked.

"Ye did, eh?" and Jake's eyes glowed with interest. "Was he surprised to see ye?"

"I believe so. He thought I was going to knock him down, and he raved like a madman. But I told him a few straight facts which he is not likely to forget."

"Ye did, eh? Bully fer you! But be careful, John. Si won't fergit anything, an' he'll come back at ye when ye'r least expectin' him."

"I told him that I am going to stay right in the parish, and that he couldn't drive me out."

"Good for you!" Mrs. Jukes exclaimed. "I like to hear a man talk that way. If the rest in Rixton would do the same Si would be taught a lesson in a short time. But they all lie down and let him walk over them."

"Ye'r always sayin' that, Susie," Jake chided. "Ye ought to know by this time what a grip Si has on everything in this parish."

"Well, it's about time, then, that he lost his grip. If there was only some one with any backbone who would go ahead, the rest would follow all right. People are getting sick and tired of the Stubbles' rule."

"Maybe the new parson'll be that kind of a man," Jake suggested.
"'Spose we wait till he comes."

"H'm," and Mrs. Jukes tossed her head, "a great chance he'll have to go ahead with everybody willing to crawl before Si Stubbles and lick his boots. Why, just as soon as Si snaps his finger all the men dance attendance, and you know it, Jake Jukes. You do the same yourself."

"But maybe the new parson might be able to do something," Jake replied, as he mopped his forehead with a big red handkerchief. He was feeling very hot and uncomfortable before his wife's attack.

"He'll be very different, then, from the last two we had," Mrs. Jukes retorted. "I'm not expecting much from him, judging from the past."

Douglas was considerably amused at this conversation. He wondered what Jake and his wife would say if they were suddenly told that the "new parson" was before them. He was finding the part he was playing more interesting every day. How it would end, and how he would explain matters, he had not the least idea. He did not worry, however, leaving the future to take care of itself.

That afternoon Douglas paid a visit to Mrs. Dempster. He wished to find out for himself how Jean was getting along, and also to listen to the widow, for he enjoyed hearing her talk, and her comments upon parish affairs.

Mrs. Dempster was cooking in the kitchen, and Jean was lying on a sofa near the stove, to all appearance asleep.

"It's right glad I am to see ye," and Mrs. Dempster placed a chair for her visitor as she spoke. "It's a dull day and not many people stirrin'. Empty's gone to his nets, so me an' Jean have been havin' a quiet time all by ourselves."

"A busy time for you, I see," Douglas replied, glancing toward the table. "Those pies look very tempting."

"Oh, yes, it makes me hustle all right to fill Empty. I often tell him he's well named, fer I never saw any one who eats as much as he does."

"All mothers say the same thing, don't they? Growing lads need plenty of food. It's better to pay the grocer than the doctor, isn't it?"'

Mrs. Dempster paused in her work and glanced toward the still form on the sofa.

"I guess she'll need the doctor before long, if I'm not much mistaken," she remarked in a low voice. "Poor child, she's had a hard time of it since she went to the city. Who'd a thought that bright an' happy Jean Benton would have come to this?"

"Is she very sick, do you think?" Douglas asked as he looked toward the sleeping woman.

Mrs. Dempster did not at once reply. She placed a pie in the oven, and then turned to her visitor.

"Guess we'd better step outside fer a minute," she suggested. "We kin talk freer in the open air."

"There, that's better," Mrs. Dempster panted as she closed the door behind her. "Ye kin never tell when sleeping people will wake an' make matters uncomfortable. Now, look here, sir, I want ye to do me a favour."

"All right," Douglas assented. "What is it?"

"I want ye to ask Nell to come here as soon as she kin. There's somethin' I want to speak to her about. She's the only woman in the place I care to ask. She's got more sense than all the rest put together, which is sayin' a good deal."

"When do you want her to come?"

"Oh, to-morrow will do. I don't want her to come over to-night, as it's wet an' the roads are so muddy. Jist tell her to come when she gits time."

"So you think Jean is sick?"

"Yes, very. But she'll be sicker before she gits better, poor dear.
But there, I must git back to my work. It was good of ye to come over."

Douglas was only too glad of an excuse to visit the Strongs. It was dark by the time he reached the house, as he had been delayed owing to the cattle going astray from the pasture. The door was opened by Nan, who gave a cry of delight when she saw Douglas standing before her.

"My, you have been a long time coming to see us again," she chided. "I have been watching for you every day."

It was a pleasant home-like scene which met Douglas' eyes as he entered the little sitting-room. The professor was seated in his big chair by the side of the table. Nell was sitting opposite, peeling and coring apples. Nan had been reading to her father, and the book was lying open on the table where she had hurriedly left it upon the arrival of the visitor. Douglas received a cordial welcome from Nell and the professor.

"I hope I am not interrupting your quietness," he apologised, as he sat down near the old man.

"I'm very glad you have interrupted the quietness," Nan quickly replied. "I'm sick and tired of Shakespeare. He's getting on my nerves."

"Nan, Nan, you must not talk of the master in that way," her father chided.

"I thought that you did the reading," Douglas remarked, turning to Nell.

"So I do, as a rule," was the smiling reply. "But Nan doesn't like peeling apples, and so she preferred to read."

"Ugh! apples stain my fingers and make them feel horrid," Nan exclaimed in disgust. "I would rather read anything—even Shakespeare."

"How is your work getting on, sir?" Douglas enquired, turning toward the professor.

"Slowly, very slowly, these days," was the reply. "There are several points I wish to think out carefully before I put them in writing. But we can talk about such matters again. I am eager now to hear about the Church meeting which was held last night. I suppose you were there?"

"Oh, yes, I wished to see and hear the new archdeacon, Dr. Rannage."

"What, was he there?"

"Yes, and two other delegates with him."

"Tell me about the meeting, please," and the professor leaned back comfortably in his chair.

As briefly as possible Douglas narrated the events of the meeting. He glanced occasionally at Nell, and noticed that at times she ceased her work to listen.

"So nothing was accomplished, then?" the professor queried when Douglas finished.

"Nothing that I could see, except to make it all the harder for the new clergyman who is coming here."

"Oh, he'll find it hard enough, all right, trust Si Stubbles for that.
If he's anything like the last clergyman we had, he'll soon give in.
I'm afraid that he will be a man of straw when it is a man of iron we
need."

Douglas smiled to himself. He was enjoying the various comments he was hearing about himself, and he wondered what the professor and others would think if they knew who he really was.

"A clergyman is supposed to be a 'steward of the mysteries,'" the old man continued. "Now, when I think of those words, I always picture to myself a mother standing before a cupboard with a bunch of keys in her hand. By her side are several children watching her with intense interest, waiting for her to open the door and bring forth things which are old, such as nicely-frosted doughnuts, and things which are new, such as jelly and pie. That cupboard is a place of mystery to the children, and the mother has the key to the treasure: Do you follow me?"

"Certainly," Douglas replied.

"Well, then, that cupboard is the Bible; the clergyman is the steward who is supposed to have the key, and his people are the children. They are looking to him to bring forth the things new and old for their good. But as far as I can find, he generally brings forth the same old things Sunday after Sunday which have become so stale that people do not care for them."

"Do all do that?" Douglas asked, mentally going over several of his sermons.

"Oh, no, not all. But the sermons I have heard since coming to this parish, and others which have been reported to me, have been of that kind. There was no life, nothing personal, and not one new and striking thought upon any great subject. They were just the same old platitudes about the Fathers, the doctrine of the Church, the duty of people to attend the services, and to give. There has been no food for longing, hungry souls."

"Such teaching is necessary, is it not?" Douglas queried.

"I do not deny that at all. But it is poor food to satisfy the soul, especially when it is served at every meal. The trouble is that so many young men leave college with stereotyped ideas. They are parrots and repeat what they have been taught, and nothing else."

Douglas winced a little at these words, for he knew how well they applied to himself. But he was beginning to see life in a new light since he had become plain John Handyman.

"We need a man who has seen and experienced life," the professor continued, "and can convert the great thoughts of the Bible into living food for hungry, troubled and tempted souls. I wish every clergyman would take a page from the life of the little bee. People as a rule think that it gets the honey right from the flower. They are mistaken. All it gets is a little sweet water. But it takes that water, retires, adds something to it from itself, and by a process of its own makes it into honey."

"Isn't that funny!" Nan exclaimed. "Why I always thought the bees carried the honey on their legs and scraped it off when they got home. Didn't you think so, Nell?"

"I confess I did," was the laughing reply. "It shows us that we have much to learn about the common things around us."

"Well, what the bee does, so should the teacher of the Word," the professor resumed. "He should go to the Bible as the bee to the flower, and 'read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.' Thus, through a process of his own, he is to bring forth the real spiritual honey for the benefit of hungry souls."

"Daddy, let's talk about something else," Nan suggested. "I am tired of such deep subjects. I was promised that I could talk to Mr. Handyman the next time he came, and there are so many things I want to ask him."

Douglas glanced at the clock and was surprised to find that it was nearly nine. He rose at once to his feet.

"I must go now," he remarked. "It would not do for me to keep you up late."

"That's always the way," Nan pouted.

"Next time I come we shall have a long talk," Douglas promised.

Nell showed Douglas to the door. He was glad of this, as it gave him an opportunity to deliver Mrs. Dempster's message.

"Is Jean very ill?" Nell asked.

"I am afraid so."

"Well, I shall go over to-morrow. Poor girl, she has had a hard time of it. Her face was so white at the hall door. She startled me. And, oh, Mr. Handyman, I want to thank you for the stand you took that night."

"You don't blame me, then?"

"Blame you! Why, no."

"I am thankful for that. It shows that all are not against me."

"Only the Stubbles condemn you. They are very angry."

Nell paused suddenly, as if in deep thought.

"Are you going right home?" she presently asked.

"Yes."

"Would you mind taking something for Jake? It is a pick-handle which we brought from the wharf last night in our boat. We often bring things for him and he does the same for us. It is a new one, and he may need it. It is right there on the verandah."

Douglas found the stick and placed it over his shoulder, bade Nell good-night, and plunged forth into the darkness.