“Mirandy, I’m going up to see the parson,” exclaimed the deacon, when the morning devotions were over, “and see if I can thaw him out a little.  I’ve heard there used to be a lot of fun in him in his younger days, but he’s sort of frozen all up latterly, and I can see that the young folks are afraid of him and the church, too, but that won’t do—­no, that won’t do,” repeated the good man emphatically, “for the minister ought to be loved by young and old, rich and poor, and everybody; and a church without young folks in it is like a family with no children in it.  Yes, I’ll go up and wish him a happy New Year, anyway.  Perhaps I can get him out for a ride to make some calls on the people and see the young folks at their fun.  It’ll do him good and them good and me good, and do everybody good.”  Saying which the deacon got inside his warm fur coat and started towards the barn to harness Jack into the worn, old-fashioned sleigh; which sleigh was built high in the back and had a curved dasher of monstrous proportions, ornamented with a prancing horse in an impossible attitude, done in bright vermilion on a blue-black ground.

II

“Happy New Year to you, Parson Whitney; happy New Year to you,” cried the deacon, from his sleigh to the parson, who stood curled up and shivering in the doorway of the parsonage, “and may you live to enjoy a hundred.”

“Come in; come in,” cried Parson Whitney, in response, “I’m glad you’ve come; I’m glad you’ve come.  I’ve been wanting to see you all the morning,” and in the cordiality of his greeting, he literally pulled the little man through the doorway into the hall and hurried him up the stairway to his study in the chamber overhead.

“Thinking of me!  Well, now, I never,” exclaimed the deacon, as, assisted by the parson, he twisted and wriggled himself out of the coat that he a little too snugly filled for an easy exit.  “Thinking of me, and among all these books, too; bibles, catechisms, tracts, theologies, sermons; well, well, that’s funny!  What made you think of me?”

“Deacon Tubman,” responded the parson, as he seated himself in his arm-chair, “I want to talk with you about the church.”

[Illustration:  “I want to talk with you about the church.”]

“The church!” ejaculated the deacon, in response, “nothing going wrong, I hope?”

“Yes, things are going wrong, deacon,” responded the parson; “the congregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good, strong, biblical, soul-satisfying sermons, I think.”

“Good ones! good ones!” answered the deacon, promptly; “never better; never better in the world.”

“And yet the people are deserting the sanctuary,” rejoined the parson, solemnly, “and the young people won’t come to the sociables and the little children seem actually afraid of me.  What shall I do, deacon?” and the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis.