The sermon had indeed gone so well and the week that followed was so peaceful that Douglas did not sleep in the chapel on the following Saturday night.  When Mr. Fowler unlocked the door on Sunday morning, a skunk fled from under the pulpit out into the aspens, and there was no service that day.

On the next Sunday, Charleton gave an all-day dance in the post-office hall and only half a dozen of the older people appeared at the chapel, to listen to a sermon on the Resurrection.  He repeated the dance for three Sundays in succession and Douglas was in despair.  Old Johnny was deeply wrought up over Douglas’ state of mind, and one Saturday night he disappeared, returning at dawn.  On that Sunday it was found that the stove in the dance-hall had disappeared and a check was put upon Charleton’s competition.

And still, with no dances to rival the sermons, the attendance at the log chapel grew smaller and smaller.  The lack of interest that was growing, now that the Valley’s first curiosity had been satisfied, was more deadly than open warfare.  Douglas saw clearly enough that the sermons were dull and he spent evening after evening sounding Fowler’s mind to its depths in the endeavor to find some angle in it that would tempt Lost Chief into the chapel.

It was a good mind, that of this preacher, stored with a very fair amount of classical learning and packed with stories of western adventure.  But classical lore had no appeal for modern-minded Lost Chief and Mr. Fowler’s adventure could be surpassed by any man in the Valley.

Judith treated the sermons with open scorn.  “No, indeed; I won’t come up to the chapel,” she replied to Doug’s appeal.  “Why should I suffer when I don’t have to?  If it would help you—!  But it wouldn’t!  The sooner you learn what a fool the old sky pilot is, the better.  Or, I tell you, Douglas!  You preach the next sermon and I promise to come and bring the crowd.”

Douglas grinned feebly.  “I value my life,” he answered.

Mary Spencer, who was listening to the conversation which took place in her kitchen, now made a suggestion.

“Why don’t you feed ’em, Doug?  Announce a series of fifty-cent dinners up at the chapel and while the folks eat, let Mr. Fowler preach.”

Douglas laughed delightedly.  “That’s a ‘gregus’ idea!  I’ll do it.  I’ll begin this Sunday with a venison dinner!”

Mary nodded.  “You get the food together and there are three or four of us women who would be glad to cook it for you.”

“You are a real friend, Mother!” exclaimed Douglas.  “I believe you’ve solved my problem!”

And so, in spite of Mr. Fowler’s protest, a venison dinner was announced for Sunday and received by the Valley in a spirit of hilarious enthusiasm.  The preacher refused to deliver the sermon while the meal was in progress, but it was such a gustatory success that at its close, the guests sat in complete docility through a sermon on future punishment.  It was a good sermon, quite as modern in most aspects as Lost Chief.  Douglas had seen to that.  Mr. Fowler had reached the closing sentence when a bull bellowed outside and the door opened disclosing Elijah Nelson, with his horse close behind him.  The preacher paused.