"'Mr. Dale,' sez I, speakin' up, when his jaw stopped waggin' fer an instant. 'Would ye be willin' to leave yer present field of labour?'

"'No,' sez he, lookin' at me surprised-like.'

"'An' why not,' sez I.

"'Oh the work is so inspirin' out thar,' sez he. 'I'd about die in a--a--'

(I think he was goin' to say a country parish like this) but he said 'settled field whar the work is so quiet, ye know.'

"'An' ye wouldn't be willin' to give up Africy,' sez I, 'fer a poor parish like Glendow, if thar was no clergyman here?'

"'No,' sez he, in a hesitatin' way, fer he didn't seem to know what I was a drivin' at.

"'Exactly so, Mr. Dale,' sez I. 'It takes a heap of s.p.u.n.k, I reckon, to go to them furren fields, but I kalkerlate it often takes jist as much to stay to hum, feed pigs, hens, an' look after a hull batch of children.

I've hearn men preach about sacryfice in big churches, but I generally find that, when a poor country parish gits vacant, they don't seem inclined to give up their rich churches an' step into a humbler place. Yet sometimes I've heerd of sich men goin' to furren fields. An' why is that, Mr. Dale?'

"'That they might do more work fer the Master,' sez he.

"'I think yer wrong thar,' sez I. 'Now, look here. To enter a country parish is to be almost unknown, an' people say, 'Oh, he's only a country parson,' an' they stick up their ugly noses, which they think are acristocat. But let a man go to a furren field, an', my lands! they blubber over 'im an' make a great fuss. If he combs the head of a little n.i.g.g.e.r brat out thar in Africy--though no doubt he needs it--why the missionary magazines an' papers are full of it. If he pulls the tooth of an old Injun chief who has a dozen wives taggin' around after 'im, the people hold up thar hands in wonder, an' call 'im a hero. But let a man stay at hum in a parish like Glendow, an' no one hears of his doin's, cause they don't want to.'"

"My! ye didn't say all that?" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger, "an' to a rale live missionary, too."

"Them's the exact words I said, an' them ain't all," rattled on Mrs.

Stickles. "I had me tongue on 'im then, an' it did me good to see his face. He looked once towards the door as if he thought I'd jump at 'im.

Oh, it was as good as a circus to see 'im shake," and she laughed at the recollection of it.

"'Remember,' sez I, 'I ain't got nuthin' agin furren missions, fer they do a heap of good. But I would like to see things levelled up a bit. If I git down on me knees an' scrub the floor, it's nuthin' thought of. But if a missionary does it, a great fuss is made. When Parson John is dug out of snow-banks every week, when his sleigh gits upsot an' throws 'im into the ditch, no one outside the parish ever hears of it. But let sich things happen to a furren missionary, an', my lands! it's wonderful.'

"I could see all the time that Mr. Dale was gittin' excited an' excit.i.ter.

"'Woman,' sez he in a lofty kind of way, which reminded me of a young rooster tryin' to crow, 'do ye realize what yer talkin' about? Do ye know yer treadin' on delicate ground?'

"'Yes,' sez I, 'when I tread on a man's toes, it's purty delicate ground.'

"'I don't mean that,' sez he. 'But do ye know that _I'm_ a missionary, an' do ye know what it means to be away from hum seven years, away in a furren land?'

"'Yes,' sez I. 'It means a holiday of a hull year at the end, with yer salary goin' on, an' yer travellin' expenses paid. D'ye think, Mr. Dale, that the parson here ever gits sich a holiday? Y'bet yer life he doesn't.

He's been here workin' like a slave fer over thirty years now, an' in all that time _he_ never had a holiday.'

"At that the parson himself speaks up. 'I think yer wrong thar, Mrs.

Stickles,' sez he. 'I had two hull weeks once, fer which I've allus been most thankful.'

"'An what are two weeks?' sez I. 'An' didn't ye pay yer own travellin'

expenses?'

"'Yes,' sez he, 'I did.'

"'Thar now,' sez I to Mr. Dale. 'What d'ye think of that? Two weeks in over thirty years of hard work!' But that reminds me of somethin'

else--an', sez I, 'Who pays yer salary, Mr. Dale? D'ye mind tellin' me that?'

"'The Mission Board' sez he.

"'An' do ye git it reglar?' sez I.

"'Every month,' sez he.

"'I thought so,' sez I. 'An' d'ye think the parson here gits his every month?'

"'I don't know,' sez he. 'But s'pose he does.'

"'Not by a long chalk,' sez I. 'He has to wait months an' months fer it, an' sometimes he doesn't git it at all, an' then has to take hay an' oats, or do without. I know that to be a fact. Old skinflint Reeker over thar owed two dollars one year to the church, an' he wondered how in the world he was to git out of payin' it. Durin' the summer a Sunday-school picnic was held on his place back in his grove, an' fer one of the games the parson cut down four little beeches about as big as canes. Thar was thousands of 'em growin' around, an' wasn't worth a postage-stamp. But old Reeker saw 'im cut 'em, an' the next day he went to the parson an' told 'im how vallable the beeches was--his fancy trees or somethin' like that--an' charged 'im fifty cents a piece, the amount he owed to the church. "Wasn't that so, Parson?" sez I, turnin' to 'im.'

"'Yes, yes,' sez he. 'But it ain't worth speakin' about now. I think we had better have our cup of tea, an' talk no more about the subject.'"

"Dear, good man," and Mrs. Stickles wiped her eyes with the corner of her ap.r.o.n. "He was kinder upsot at what I said. But not so, Nellie. Her sweet face jist beamed on me, an' when I went out into the kitchen to help her she put her arms about me old neck, an' gave me a good big thumpin' kiss.

That's what she did."

Scarcely had Mrs. Stickles ended, ere bells were heard outside.

"Why, I declare, if Abraham ain't back already!" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger, rising to her feet and donning her hat and wraps. "He's made a quick trip.

I'm very grateful, indeed I am, fer the cup of tea an' the pleasant time I've had. Ye must come to see me as soon as ye kin."

Mrs. Stickles stood for some time at the window watching the McKriggers driving away. She was thinking deeply, and a plan was being evolved in her mind which made her forget her washing and the various household duties.

At length she turned and entered the room where her husband and little Ruth were lying.

"John," she said, after she had related to him what Mrs. McKrigger had told her about Farrington and the pet.i.tion, "d'ye think you an' Ruthie will mind if me an' Sammy go into the sh.o.r.e this afternoon with old Queen?"

"Why no, dear," was the reply. "But don't ye think the roads are too bad, an' besides, what are ye thinkin' of?"

"I don't mind the roads, John. They're purty well smashed down by now, an'

Queen's very stidy. I've a plan, John, which comes right from me insides,"

and leaning over she whispered it into his ear.

"Land sakes, dear!" replied her husband. "D'ye think ye kin manage it?

Will they listen to ye? Ye're only a woman, remember, an' what kin a woman do?"

"Yes, I'm only a woman, John, an' mebbe 'tain't a woman's place. But when men are too scart an' heven't as much s.p.u.n.k as a chicken jist outer the sh.e.l.l, what else is thar to do? Is thar no one in the hull parish to stan'

up fer the Lord's anointed? Tell me that. Didn't that beautiful Queen Ester stan' before her crank of a husband, Hazen Hearus, an' plead fer the lives of her people? An' didn't Jael do the Lord's will when she put old Sirseree outer the way, tell me that? Now, I ain't a queen like Ester, an'

I hope I ain't a woman like Jael that 'ud drive a nail through a man's head. I'm jist plain old Marthy Stickles, but mebbe I kin do somethin' fer the Lord, even if I ain't purty or clever."

An hour later an old, lean horse fastened to a homemade pung was wending its way slowly along the road leading to the river. Holding the reins was Sammy, a queer little figure, wrapped from head to foot, bravely maintaining his precarious position on six inches of the end of the board seat. Towering above him, broad-shouldered and ponderous, sat Mrs.

Stickles, the very embodiment of health and strength.

"Sammy," said she, as the sled lurched along the rough road, "I don't like this bizness. But when the Lord's work's to be did, somebody's got to set his face like flint, as the Bible sez, an' do it. Don't ye ever fergit that, Sammy. Don't ye ever disremember that yer ma told ye."

Chapter XIX