However, it is all over, and there is quite a dispute after the “class” as to who shall have the pastor’s company to dinner.  It is a piece of fine diplomacy to determine this.  Policy dictates the most influential; feeling, the most reverend and poor.  But the interest of the church is paramount; a compliment or a promise appeases the vanity of the humbler, and we follow the double team of the great landholder, Tibbet, and are soon sitting before his roaring fire.

Itinerants are notoriously big eaters.  Our father keeps a weather eye on the provender as it is brought in smoking, and it being soon apparent that the dinner is to be orthodox, if not apostolic, his social attributes improve wonderfully.  He breaks out in little spurts of anecdote, not entirely secular, nor yet too didactic to be jovial.  They run upon young Brother Bolt, who once, after an unusual happy “revival” night, to show his great faith, tried to leap over a creek and doused himself to the ears; upon the great controversialist, Whanger, who, being invited to preach in a “High Church” pulpit, improved the occasion to trace apostolic succession as far back as Pope Joan; upon the first intelligent contraband of his kind, whose mistress affirmed that if one’s ill deeds were numerically greater than his good ones he would be—­jammed, and if the contrary, saved, and who responded, “Spose’n dey boff de same, missus?”

These are told with inimitable spirit and mimicry, as want of clerical wit is a direct impeachment of the validity of one’s “call” to preach; and when the table is filled, and with outstretched hands the blessing said, our father gets a universal compliment for his carving.  There is roast turkey, with rich stuffing, bright cranberry sauce, and savory pies of pumpkin, mince, and persimmon, cider to wash down the mealy ripeness of the sweet potato, and at the end transparent quinces drowned in velvet cream.  How glibly goes the time!  We play with a young miss, who shows us her library, in which, we are sorry to say, a book about pirates deeply absorbs us.  But at last the sulky comes to the door; we say good-by with touched full hearts, and pass hummingly to appointment No. 2.

This is “Sand Hill,” perhaps, or “Mumpson Town,” or “Ebenezer,” or “Dry Pond;” and when we have mustered again in the afternoon, and in the evening for the third time, turn Sal’s head toward the parsonage, and sail along in the night, cold and worn, past fields of stubble, over which the wind sweeps, past negro cabins, watching like human things upon us, through dreary woods where the tall pines rock against the stars and the clouds sail whitely by like witches going to a rendezvous, past cheerful homes, gleaming light and rest and worldly competence, the owners whereof have heard no deep command to carry the gospel into wildernesses, or hearing disobeyed.  And all the while our father sings softly to himself, looking now and then at us who are his cross, and again into the shining constellations which hide his crown.