“Don’t you s’pose I know what they’re wuth?” continued the carpenter.  “Haven’t I hung around in front of the meetin’-house Summer nights, when the winders was open, jest to listen to the singin’ and what else I could hear?  Hezn’t my wife ben with me there many a time, and hevn’t both of us prayed an’ groaned an’ cried in our hearts, not only ’cos we couldn’t join in it all ourselves, but ’cos we couldn’t send the children either, without their learnin’ to hate religion ’fore they fairly know’d what ’twas?  Haven’t I sneaked in to the vestibule Winter nights, an’ sot just where I did last night, an’ heard what I’d ’a liked my wife and children to hear, an’ prayed for the time to come when the self-app’inted elect shouldn’t offend the little ones?  An’ after sittin’ there last night, an’ comin’ home and tellin’ my wife how folks was concerned about us, an’ our rejoicin’ together in the hope that some day our children could hev the chances we’re shut out of now, who should come along this mornin’ but one of those same holy people, and Jewed me down on pay that the Lord knows is hard enough to live on.”

The Deacon had a heart, and he knew the nature of self-respect as well as men generally.  His mind ran entirely outside of texts for a few minutes, and then, with a sigh for the probable expense, he remarked: 

“Reckon Flite’s notion was right, after all—­ther’ ort to be a workin’-man’s chapel.”

[Illustration]

“Ort?” responded Hay; “who d’ye s’pose’d go to it?  Nobody?  Ye can rent us second-class houses, an’ sell us second-hand clothin’, and the cheapest cuts o’ meat, but when it comes to cheap religion—­nobody knows its value better ’n we do.  We don’t want to go into yer parlors on carpets and furniture we don’t know how to use, an’ we don’t expect to be asked into society where our talk an’ manners might make some better eddicated people laugh.  But when it comes to religion—­God knows nobody needs an’ deserves the very best article more ’n we do.”

The Deacon was a reasonable man, and being old, was beginning to try to look fairly at matters upon which he expected soon to be very thoroughly examined.  The indignant protest of the carpenter had, he feared, a great deal of reason, and yet—­God’s people deserved to hold their position, if, as usual, the argument ended where it began.  So he asked, rather triumphantly: 

“What is to be done, then?”

“Reform God’s people themselves,” replied the carpenter, to the horror of the pious old man.  “When the right hand of fellowship is reached out to the front, instead of stuck behind the back when a poor man comes along, there’ll be plenty that’ll be glad to take it.  Reform yer own people, Deac’n.  ’Fore yer pick out of our eyes the motes we’ll be glad enough to get rid of, ye can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of yer own.”

Soldiers of the Cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the Deacon, and he prudently withdrew.