“Yes, yes, that’s the very thing,” hastily exclaimed the relieved deacon,—­“that’s it, that’s it.  Why, Mis’ Kinney, as for their thinkin’ it strange, there ain’t a man in the parish that wouldn’t vote for you for minister twice over if ye wuz only a man.  I’ve heerd ’em all say so more ’n a thousand times sence.”  Something in Draxy’s face cut the Deacon’s sentence short.

“Very well, Mr. Swift,” she said.  “Then I will try, since you think it best.  My father thought it would be a good plan too, or else I should not have been willing,” she added, gently.

“Reuben Miller’s daughter” was still as guileless, reverent, potent a thought in Draxy’s heart as when, upon her unconscious childish lips, the words had been a spell, disarming and winning all hearts to her.

The news had gone all through the village on Saturday night, that Deacon Swift was to read one of Elder Kinney’s sermons the next day.  The whole parish was present; not a man, not a woman was missing except those who were kept at home by sickness.  A tender solemnity was in every face.  Not often does it happen to a man to be so beloved by a whole community as was Elder Kinney by this people.

With some embarrassment and hesitation, Deacon Swift read the hymns and made one of the prayers; Deacon Plummer made the other.  Then there came a pause.  Draxy flushed scarlet and half rose in her pew.  She had not thought to tell the Deacon that he must explain to the people beforehand why she read the sermon.  She had taken it for granted that he would do so; but he did not comprehend that he ought, and only looked nervously towards her, waiting for her to come forward.  This was the one moment which tried Draxy’s soul; there was almost vexation in her look, as hastily laying aside her bonnet she walked up to the table in front of the pulpit, and, turning towards the people, said in her clear, melodious voice,—­

“Dear friends, I am sorry Deacon Swift did not explain to you that I was to read the sermon.  He asked me to do so because Mr. Kinney’s handwriting is very hard for a stranger to read.”

She paused for a second, and then added: 

“The sermon which I have chosen is one which some of you will remember.  It was written and preached nine years ago.  The text is in the beautiful Gospel of St. John, the 14th chapter and the 27th verse,—­

“‘Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you.’”

After pronouncing these words, Draxy paused again, and looking towards her pew, made a slight sign to Reuby.  The child understood instantly, and walked swiftly to her.

“Sit in this chair here by mamma, Reuby darling,” she whispered, and Reuby climbed up into the big chair on her right hand, and leaned his fair golden head against the high mahogany back.  Draxy had become conscious, in that first second, that she could not read with Reuby’s wistful face in sight.  Also she felt a sudden yearning for the support of his nearer presence.