suburb of New York City.  In the summer our congregation is very largely composed of city people.  They are used to good preaching.  They won’t come to hear a commonplace preacher.  And at the same time we have a very peculiar native population.  And then, apart from our own people, there is the Mill village which really belongs to our parish, and which our pastor ought to cultivate.  All these various elements combine to make up a diverse and conflicting population.  And it will require a man of great energy, and great prudence, and no little knowledge of human nature, and practical skill in managing men, to get along here at all.  I know more about Wheathedge than you do, Mr. Laicus, and I assure you that it is a very peculiar field.”

I believe that in the estimation of supply committees all fields are very peculiar fields.  But I did not say anything.

“And we need a very peculiar man?” said Mr. Gear inquiringly.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wheaton, decidedly; “a man of peculiar abilities and qualifications.”

“Well then,” said Mr. Gear, “I hope you are prepared to pay a peculiar salary.  I don’t know much about church matters gentlemen.  I don’t know what you put me on the committee for.  But in my shop if I want a peculiar man I have to pay a peculiar salary.”

There was a little laugh at this sally, but Mr. Gear evidently meant no joke, and as evidently Mr. Wheaton did not take any.

“Well,” said I, “so far as salary goes I am prepared to vote for an increase to $1,500 and a parsonage.  I don’t live on less than twice that.”

Mr. Hardcap struck his hands down resolutely into his pockets and groaned audibly.

“I am afraid we can’t get it, Mr. Laicus,” said Mr. Wheaton.  “I believe a minister ought to have it, but I don’t see where its coming from.  We musn’t burden the parish.”

“And I believe,” I retorted, “that the laborer is worthy of his hire; and we must not burden the pastor.”

“For my part,” said Mr. Hardcap, “I won’t give my consent to a dollar over $1,200 a year.  I ain’t goin’ to encourage ministerial luxury nohow.”

“Well, for my part,” said Mr. Wheaton, “I don’t care so much about that.  But we must have a first rate man.  He has to preach here in the summer time to city congregations.  They are critical sir, critical.  And we have got to have just as good a man as the Broadway Tabernacle.  But as to paying a city salary, that you know is absurd, Mr. Laicus.  We can’t be expected to do that.”

“Bricks without straw,” murmured Mr. Gear.

Just then the Post-Office window opened, and we made a rush for our mail.  But before we separated we agreed to hold a formal meeting at my house a week from the following Thursday evening for a further canvass of the whole matter.

Meanwhile I am perplexed by the double problem that our informal meeting has suggested.  I have been sitting for half an hour pondering it.  The children have long since gone to bed.  I have finished my evening paper, and written my evening letters.  The fire has burned low, and been replenished.  Jennie sits by my side engaged in that modern imitation of Penelope’s task, the darning of stockings.  And for half an hour, only the ticking of the clock and the sighing of the wind outside have disturbed the silence of the room.