“George,” said the Deacon, “I’ve been doin’ a heap of thinkin’ ’bout what we talked of yesterday.  I’ve come to say that if you like I’ll lend you three hundred dollars fur as long as ye’v a mind to, without note, security or int’rest; you to spend as much of it ez ye need to dress you an’ yer hull fam’ly in Sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the Savin’s Bank, at interest, to go on doin’ the same with when necessary.  An’ all of ye to go to church when ye feel so disposed.  An’ ef nobody else’s pew-door opens, yer allus welcome to mine.  And may the Lord” the Deacon finished the sentence to himself—­“have mercy on my soul.”  Then he said, aloud: 

“That’s all.”

The carpenter, at the beginning of the Deacon’s speech, had dropped his axe, to the imminent danger of one of his feet.  As the Deacon continued, the carpenter dropped his head to one side, raised one eye-brow inquiringly, and awaited the conditions.  But when the Deacon said “That’s all,” George Hay seized the Deacon’s hard old hand, gave it a grasp which brought agonized tears to the eyes of its venerable owner, and exclaimed: 

“Deacon, God’s people are reformin’!”

The Deacon staggered a little—­he had not thought of it in that light before.

“Deacon, that money’ll do more good than all the prayin’ ye ever done.  ’Xcuse me—­I must tell Mary,” and the carpenter dashed into the house.  Had Mrs. Hay respected the dramatic proprieties, she would have made the Deacon a neat speech; but the truth is, she regarded him from behind the window-blind, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; seeing which the Deacon abruptly started for home, making less use of his cane than he had done in any day for years.

It is grievous to relate, but truth is mighty—­that within a fortnight the good Deacon repented of his generous action at least fifty times.  He would die in the poor-house if he were so extravagant again.  Three hundred dollars was more than the cow-shed—­lumber, shingles, nails, labor and all—­would cost.  Suppose Hay should take the money and go West?  Suppose he should take to drinking, and spend it all for liquor!  One suspicion after another tortured the poor man until he grew thin and nervous.  But on the second Sunday, having satisfied himself that Hay was in town, sober, the day before, that he had been to the city and brought back bundles, and that he (the Deacon) had seldom been in the street without meeting one of Hay’s children with a paper of hooks and eyes or a spool of thread, the Deacon stationed himself in one of his own front windows, and brought his spectacles to bear on Hay’s door, a little distance off.  The first bell had rung, apparently, hours before, yet no one appeared—­could it be that he had basely sneaked to the city at night and pawned everything?  No—­the door opened—­there they came.  It couldn’t be—­yes, it was—­well, he never imagined Hay and his wife were so fine a-looking couple.  They came nearer, and the Deacon, forgetting his cane, hobbled hurriedly to church, entered his pew, and left the door wide open.  He waited long, it seemed to him, but they did not come.  He looked around impatiently, and there, O, joy and wonder!—­the president of the Pawkin Savings’ Institution had invited the whole family into his pew!  Just then the congregation rose to sing the hymn commencing: