“A box supper,” asked J.W., “or a bean-bag party?” But he knew better.

Marty told him to wait and see.  Supper was a pleasant meal, the Amberys being pleasant people, who lived in a cozy new house.  But J.W. was mystified to hear Marty speak of Henry Ambery as a retired farmer.  He knew retired farmers in town, plenty of them, and some no happier for being there.  But in the country?

“Oh,” said Marty, “that’s easy.  Our church is the social hub of all this community, and I told the Amberys that if they built here they would be as well off as in town.  I’m right too.  They bought two acres for less than the price of a town lot, and they have most of the farm comforts as well as all the modern conveniences.  You didn’t notice any signs of homesickness, did you?”

No, J.W., hadn’t, though he knew the retired-farmer sort of homesickness when he saw it.

“And the Amberys are worth more to the church than they ever were,” Marty added.  “I’m thinking of a scheme to colonize two or three other retiring farmers within easy reach of this church.  Why not?  They’ve got cars, and can drive to the county seat in an hour if they want to.  That’s better than living there all the time, with nothing to do.”

By this the two were at the church, a pretty frame building, L-shaped, with a community house adjoining the auditorium.  People were beginning to arrive in all sorts of vehicles—­cars, mostly.  J.W. looked for signs of a feed, but vainly.  No spread tables, no smell of cooking or rattle of dishes from the kitchen.

“What is it, Marty?” he asked.  And Marty laughed as he answered, “Old-fashioned singing school, with some new-fashioned variations, that’s all.”  Certainly it was something which interested the countryside, for there was every indication of a crowded house.

J.W. heard the singing and noted with high approval the variations which modernized the old order.  He thought the idea plenty good enough even for Delafield, which, for him, left nothing more to be said.  And there was a feed, after all; but it was distinctly light refreshments, such as J.W. was used to at Delafield First Church.

On the way back to the Amberys’, and well into the night in Marty’s room, they talked about the circuit and its work.

“It isn’t a circuit, rightly, you know,” Marty said.  “I preach every Sunday at both places, and for the present”—­J.W. grinned—­“I can get across the whole parish every day if necessary.  But I’m working it a little more systematically than that.”

“You must be.  I can hardly believe even what I’ve seen already,” J.W. replied.  “When I was at Deep Creek last Sunday I was sure it was all off with the country church, and on the way down here I passed three abandoned meetinghouses.  So I made up my mind to persuade you out of it.  You know I wasn’t much in favor of your coming here in the first place.  But maybe that’s a bigger job than I thought.”