“I see them,” said Hawes, with a doleful air, “and I suppose I shall hear some of them before long.”

“These,” said Mr. Jones, smiling with perfect good-humor at the innocuous sneer, “are sermons I composed when I was curate of Little-Stoke.  Of late I have been going regularly through my Little-Stoke discourses, as you may see.  I take one from the pile in this drawer, and after first preaching it in the jail I place it in the left drawer on that smaller pile.”

“That you mayn’t preach it again by accident; well, that is business.”

“If you look into the left pile near the top, you will find the one I preached against profane discourse, with the date at which it was first composed.”

“Here it is, sir—­Little-Stoke, May 15, 1847.”

“Well, Mr. Hawes, now was that written against you?—­come!”

“No!  I confess it could not; but look here, if a man sends a bullet into me, it doesn’t matter to me whether he made the gun on purpose or shot me out of an old one that he had got by him.”

“But I tell you that I took the sermon out in its turn, and knew no more what it was about until I opened it in the pulpit, than I knew what this one is about which I am going to preach next Sunday morning—­it was all chance.”

“It was my bad luck, I suppose,” said Hawes a little sulkily.

“And mine, too.  Could I anticipate that a discourse composed for and preached to a rural congregation would be deemed to have a personal application here?”

“Well, no!”

“I have now only to add that I extremely regret the circumstance.”

“Say no more, sir.  When a gentleman expresses his regret to another gentleman, there is an end of the grievance.

“I will take care the sort of thing never happens again.”

“Enough said, sir.”

“It never can, however, for I shall preach but one more Sunday here.”

“And I’m very sorry for it, Mr. Jones.”

“And after this occurrence I am determined to write both sermons for the occasion, so there is sure to be nothing personal in them.”

“Yes, that is the surest way.  Well, sir, you and I never had but this one little misunderstanding, and now that is explained, we shall part friends.”

“A glass of ale, Mr. Hawes?”

“I don’t care if I do, sir (the glasses were filled and emptied).  “I must go and look after my chickens; the justices have ordered Gillies to be flogged.  You will be there, I suppose, in half an hour.”

“Well, if my attendance is not absolutely necessary—­”

“We will excuse you, sir, if not convenient.”

“Thank you—­good-morning!” and the reconciled officials parted.

Little Gillies was hoisted to receive twenty lashes; at the twelfth the governor ordered him down.

He broke off the tale as our magazines do, with a promise—­” To be continued.”

Little Gillies, like their readers, cried out, “No, sir.  Oh, sir! please flog me to an end, and ha’ done with it.  I don’t feel the cuts near so much now—­my back seems dead like.”