Perhaps the laugh cleared the air; or perhaps the pathos of Jimmy Bean’s story as told by Pollyanna’s eager little lips touched a heart already strangely softened.  At all events, when Pollyanna went home that night she carried with her an invitation for Jimmy Bean himself to call at the great house with Pollyanna the next Saturday afternoon.

“And I’m so glad, and I’m sure you’ll like him,” sighed Pollyanna, as she said good-by.  “I do so want Jimmy Bean to have a home—­and folks that care, you know.”

CHAPTER XXII.  SERMONS AND WOODBOXES

On the afternoon that Pollyanna told John Pendleton of Jimmy Bean, the Rev. Paul Ford climbed the hill and entered the Pendleton Woods, hoping that the hushed beauty of God’s out-of-doors would still the tumult that His children of men had wrought.

The Rev. Paul Ford was sick at heart.  Month by month, for a year past, conditions in the parish under him had been growing worse and worse; until it seemed that now, turn which way he would, he encountered only wrangling, backbiting, scandal, and jealousy.  He had argued, pleaded, rebuked, and ignored by turns; and always and through all he had prayed—­earnestly, hopefully.  But to-day miserably he was forced to own that matters were no better, but rather worse.

Two of his deacons were at swords’ points over a silly something that only endless brooding had made of any account.  Three of his most energetic women workers had withdrawn from the Ladies’ Aid Society because a tiny spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging tongues into a devouring flame of scandal.  The choir had split over the amount of solo work given to a fanciedly preferred singer.  Even the Christian Endeavor Society was in a ferment of unrest owing to open criticism of two of its officers.  As to the Sunday school—­it had been the resignation of its superintendent and two of its teachers that had been the last straw, and that had sent the harassed minister to the quiet woods for prayer and meditation.

Under the green arch of the trees the Rev. Paul Ford faced the thing squarely.  To his mind, the crisis had come.  Something must be done—­and done at once.  The entire work of the church was at a standstill.  The Sunday services, the week-day prayer meeting, the missionary teas, even the suppers and socials were becoming less and less well attended.  True, a few conscientious workers were still left.  But they pulled at cross purposes, usually; and always they showed themselves to be acutely aware of the critical eyes all about them, and of the tongues that had nothing to do but to talk about what the eyes saw.

And because of all this, the Rev. Paul Ford understood very well that he (God’s minister), the church, the town, and even Christianity itself was suffering; and must suffer still more unless—­

Clearly something must be done, and done at once.  But what?