“I’ve paid over a hundred dollars a year church dues,” said Joe, wrathfully, “not counting subscriptions to a bell and a new organ.”

“That wasn’t for God, Joseph,” said the Squire; “’twas all for you.  God never’ll thank you for running an asylum for paupers fit to work.  You’ll find in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew a description of those that’s going into the kingdom of heaven—­they’re the people that give food and clothing to the needy, and that visit the sick and prisoners, while those that don’t do these things don’t go in, to put it mildly.  He don’t say a word about belief there, Joseph; for He knows that giving away property don’t happen till a man’s belief is pretty strong.”

Joe felt troubled.  Could it really be that his eternal insurance was going to cost more money?  Joe thought enviously of Colonel Bung, President of the Bungfield Railroad Co.—­the Colonel didn’t believe in anything; so he saved all his money, and Joe wished he had some of the Colonel’s courage.

Joe’s meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Sam Ottrey, a poor fellow who owed Joe some money.  Joe had lent Sam a hundred dollars, discounted ten per cent, for ninety days, and secured by a chattel mortgage on Sam’s horse and wagon.  But Sam had been sick during most of the ninety days, and when he went to Joe to beg a few days of grace, that exemplary business man insisted upon immediate payment.

It was easy to see by Sam’s hopeless eye and strained features that he had not come to pay—­he was staring ruin in the face, and felt as uncomfortable as if the amount were millions instead of a horse and wagon, his only means of support.  As for Joe, he had got that hundred dollars and horse and wagon mixed up in the oddest way with what he and his partner had been talking about.  It was utterly unbusiness-like—­he knew it—­he tried to make business business, and religion religion, but, try as he might, he could not succeed.  Joe thought briskly; he determined to try an experiment.

“Sam,” said he, “got the money?”

“No,” Sam replied; “luck’s agin me—­I’ve got to stand it, I suppose.”

“Sam,” said Joe, “I’ll give you all the time you need, at legal interest.”

Sam was not such a young man as sentimental people would select to try good deeds upon.  But he was human, and loved his wife and children, and the sudden relief he felt caused him to look at Joe in a manner which made Joe find a couple of entire strangers in his own eyes.  He hurried into the little office, and when his partner looked up inquiringly, Joe replied: 

“I’ve got a dividend, Squire—­one of those we were talking about.”

“How’s that?” asked the old man, while Joe commenced writing rapidly.

“I’ll show you,” said Joe, handing the Squire the paper on which he has just put in writing his promise to Sam.

“Joseph,” said the Squire, after reading the paper several times, to assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, “it beats the widow’s mites; she gave the Lord all she had, but you’ve given Him more than you ever had in all your life until to-day.”