I readily promised to seek an occasion to talk with the Deacon, the more so because I really feel for our pastor.  When I first came to Wheathedge he was full of enthusiasm.  He has various plans for adding attractiveness and interest to our Sabbath-evening service, which has always flagged.  He tried a course of sermons to young men.  He announced sermons on special topics.  Occasionally a political discourse would draw a pretty full house, but generally it was quite evident that the second sermon was almost as much of a burden to the congregation as it was to the minister.  Latterly he seems to have given up these attempts, and to follow the example of his brethren hereabout.  He exchanges pretty often.  Quite frequently we get an agent.  Occasionally I fancy, the more from the pastor’s manner than from my recollection, that he is preaching an old sermon.  At other times we get a sort of expository lecture, the substance of which I find in my copy of Lange when I get home.  Under this treatment the congregation, never very large, has dwindled away to quite diminutive proportions; and our poor pastor is quite discouraged.  Until about six weeks ago Deacon Goodsole was always in his pew.  I think his falling off was the last straw.

Last Sabbath evening, on my way to church, I stopped, according to promise, to see the Deacon.  As I went up the steps I heard the sound of music, and waited a moment lest I should disturb the family’s evening devotions.  But as the music continued, and presently the tune changed, I concluded to knock.  Nettie, the Deacon’s youngest daughter, who by the way is a great favorite with me, answered the knock almost instantly.  The open hymn-book was in her hand, and before I could get time to ask for the Deacon, she had, in her charmingly impulsive way, dragged me in, snatched my hat from my hand, deposited it on the table, and pushed me into the parlor.  In fact, before I well knew what I was about, I found myself in the big arm-chair with Nettie in my lap, taking part in the Deacon’s second service.

His family were all about him, including the stable boy, whose hair looked as sleek as the Deacon’s horse.  For the Deacon has some queer notions about the duties of employers to their servants, and, though the very kindest of men, is generally thought by the neighbors to be “a queer stick.”  The Deacon’s wife, who has a very sweet soprano voice, which, however, she never could be persuaded to use in our choir, was presiding at the piano.  The children all had their hymn and tune-books, and they were “singing round”—­each member of the family selecting a hymn in turn.  As they were limited to two verses each—­except where two clubbed together to secure an entire hymn—­the exercise was not prolonged, and certainly did not become tedious.  After the singing, the Deacon asked the children if they were ready with their verses.  They all raised their hands.  The Deacon then repeated a short piece of poetry, his wife followed, and then all the children one after another, even down to Bob—­a little three-year-old, who just managed to lisp out, with a charming mixture of pride and bashfulness,