“If it hadn’t been for you and others like you, men who had forgotten what it was to be young, I should never have gone away,” said Dick hotly.  “What had I done worse than a dozen others, only that I happened to be the minister’s son?”

“That’s just it; you were bringin’ trouble on the parish, makin’ talk that reflected on your father.  Folks said if he couldn’t control his own son, he wa’n’t fit to manage a church.  You played cards, you danced, you drove a fast horse.”

“I never did a thing I’m ashamed of but one,”—­and Dick’s voice was firm.  “My misdeeds were nothing but boyish nonsense, but the village never gave me credit for a single virtue.  I ought to have remembered father’s position, but whatever I was or whatever I did, you had no right to pray for me openly for full five minutes at a public meeting.  That galled me worse than anything!”

“Now, Isaac,” interrupted Mrs. Todd.  “I hope you’ll believe me!  I’ve told you once a week, on an average, these last three years, that you might have chastened Dick some other way besides prayin’ for him in meetin’!”

The Deacon smiled grimly.  “You both talk as if prayin’ was one of the seven deadly sins,” he said.

“I’m not objecting to your prayers,” agreed Dick, “but there were plenty of closets in your house where you might have gone and told the Lord your opinion of me; only that wasn’t good enough for you; you must needs tell the whole village!”

“There, father, that’s what I always said,” agreed Mrs. Todd.

“Well, I ain’t one that can’t yield when the majority’s against me,” said the Deacon, “particularly when I’m treatin’ John Trimble for the colic.  If you’ll stop actin’ so you threaten to split the church, Dick Larrabee, I’ll stop prayin’ for you.  The Lord knows how I feel about it now, so I needn’t keep on remindin’ Him.”

[Illustration]

IX

“That’s a bargain and here’s my hand on it,” cried Dick.  “Now, what do you say to letting me be Santa Claus?  Come on in and let’s look at John Trimble.  He’d make a splendid Job or Jeremiah, but I wouldn’t let him spoil a Christmas festival!”

“Do let Dick take the part, father,”—­and Mrs. Todd’s tone was most ingratiating.  “John’s terrible dull and bashful anyway, an’ mebbe he’d have a pain he couldn’t stan’ jest when he’s givin’ out the presents.  An’ Dick is always so amusin’.”

Deacon Todd led the way into the improvised dressing-room.  He had removed John’s gala costume in order to apply the mustard faithfully and he lay in a crumpled heap in the corner.  The plaster itself adorned a stool near by.

“Now, John!  John!  That plaster won’t do you no good on the stool.  It ain’t the stool that needs drawin’; it’s your stomach,” argued Mrs. Todd.

“I’m drawed pretty nigh to death a’ready,” moaned John.  “I’m rore, that’s what I am,—­rore!  An’ I won’t be Santa Claus neither.  I want to go home.”