The new pastor at Pawkin Centre, like good pastors everywhere, had tortured himself into many a headache over the perplexing question, “How are we to reach the impenitent in our midst!” The said impenitent were, with but few exceptions, industrious, honest, respectable, law-abiding people, and the worthy pastor, as fully impregnated with Yankee-thrift as with piety, shuddered to think of the waste of souls that was constantly threatening.  At length, like many another pastor, he called a meeting of the brethren, to prayerfully consider this momentous question.  The Deacon came, of course, and so did all the other pillars, and many of them presented their views.  Brother Grave thought the final doom of the impenitent should be more forcibly presented; Deacon Struggs had an abiding conviction that it was the Man of Sin holding dominion in their hearts that kept these people away from the means of grace; Deacon Ponder mildly suggested that the object might perhaps be attained if those within the fold maintained a more godly walk and conversation, but he was promptly though covertly rebuked by the good Deacon Barker, who reminded the brethren that “it is the Spirit that quickeneth”; Brother Flite, who hadn’t any money, thought the Church ought to build a “working-man’s chapel,” but this idea was promptly and vigorously combated by all men of property in the congregation.  By this time the usual closing hour had arrived, and after a benediction the faithful dispersed, each with about the ideas he brought to the meeting.

Early next morning the good Deacon Barker, with his mind half full of the state of the unconverted, and half of his unfinished cow-shed, took his stick and hobbled about the village in search of a carpenter to finish the incomplete structure.  There was Moggs, but Moggs had been busy all the season, and it would be just like him to want full price for a day’s work.  Stubb was idle, but Stubb was slow.  Augur—­Augur used liquor, and the Deacon had long ago firmly resolved that not a cent of his money, if he could help it, should ever go for the accursed stuff.  But there was Hay—­he hadn’t seen him at work for a long time—­perhaps he would be anxious enough for work to do it cheaply.

The Deacon knocked at Hay’s door, and Hay himself shouted: 

“Come in.”

“How are ye, George,” said the Deacon, looking hastily about the room, and delightfully determining, from the patient face of sad-eyed Mrs. Hay and the scanty furnishing of the yet uncleared breakfast-table, that he had been providentially guided to the right spot.  “How’s times with ye?”

“Not very good, Deac’n,” replied Hay.  “Nothin’ much doin’ in town.”

“Money’s awful sceerce,” groaned the Deacon.

“Dreadful,” responded George, devoutly thanking the Lord that he owed the Deacon nothing.

“Got much to do this winter?” asked the Deacon.

“Not by a d—­day’s job—­not a single day,” sorrowfully replied Hay.