‘Not more than others I deserve, Yet God has given me more.’ —apparently quite unaware that, in saying so, he cast a slur upon his Maker. In the parlour itself there was every sign of comfort, in the way of easy-chairs, and sofas, and good mahogany. Over the fireplace was a good-sized looking-glass. Opposite to it was a bookcase, inside the glass shutters of which was a set of _Evangelical Magazines_, well bound, a Matthew Henry’s Commentary, an illustrated ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ and a large folio copy of Fleetwood’s ‘Life of Christ.’ For the young people there were Cowper’s Poems, those of Jane Taylor, and Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost.’ Perhaps the best-thumbed volume in the collection was the ‘Cookery Book,’ for neither the master nor his wife approved of starving the tabernacle or mortifying the flesh when their pleasure lay in an opposite direction. In the way of ornament the room boasted of portraits of a murdered missionary and a leading London divine, who had been popular in his denomination in his day, and oil-paintings of the master of the house and his missus, by no means flattering to either. The windows were lined with heavy curtains that kept out the cold. The fire burnt brightly on the hearth. The seductive tea-urn sent its rich aroma all round. Plum-cake and hot buttered toast, to say nothing of muffins, were plentiful, while a real Yorkshire ham tempted one to cut and come again. The deacon and his wife loved to be happy in their way, and it was with pardonable pride they sat down to the feast, and gathered around them their chapel friends. They fell bravely to work, as soon as the compliment had been passed of asking the eldest of the visitors to say grace. The one selected was a chemist, the other who returned thanks was a farmer, who, if goodness was tested by a tendency to sleep all sermon-time, was a saint indeed. His drowsiness, he admitted, was an infirmity, but it was one against which he seemed to make no effort. He was wide-awake enough when he had a horse to buy or a bullock to sell. After the guests had satisfied the wants of their inner man, and discussed the state of the weather, and the corn-market and the crops, they began discoursing. Let us listen to them. ‘Well,’ said Jones, the farmer, ‘I don’t think that young man who preached on Sunday was the sort of man we want for Bethesda. It was all very fine, and, if I had not been a Christian, I should have enjoyed it myself.’ ‘Mere morality,’ said Stephens, the chemist and druggist, ‘not a word for the poor sinner.’ ‘Yet the chapel was crammed full at night, and I hear we shall have a larger congregation next Sunday.’ ‘And a deal of good that will do us. Larnin’ and eloquence will never save a soul. If the root of the matter an’t there, what’s the use of them? We don’t want a lot of giddy creatures coming along and crowdin’ up the place. I’ll be bound to say that young man is a Neologist.’ ‘A what?’ all asked with horror.