“Oh, pshaw!” broke in Mrs. Hooper irritably, twining her fingers and tapping the carpet with her foot, “Mr. Letgood doesn't want to leave Kansas City. Don't you understand? Perhaps he likes the folk here just as well as any in Chicago.” No words could describe the glance which accompanied this. It was appealing, and coquettish, and triumphant, and the whole battery was directed full on Mr. Letgood, who had by this time recovered his self-possession. “Of course,” he said, turning to the Deacon and overlooking Mrs. Hooper's appeal, “I know all that, and I don't deny that the 'call' at first seemed to draw me.” Here his voice dropped as if he were speaking to himself: “It offers a wider and a higher sphere of work, but there's work, too, to be done here, and I don't know that the extra salary ought to tempt me. _Take neither scrip nor money in your purse_,” and he smiled, “you know.” “Yes,” said the Deacon, his eyes narrowing as if amazement were giving place to a new emotion; “yes, but that ain't meant quite literally, I reckon. Still, it's fer you to judge. But ef you refuse ten thousand dollars a year, why, there are mighty few who would, and that's all I've got to say--mighty few,” he added emphatically, and stood up as if to shake off the burden of a new and, therefore, unwelcome thought. When the minister also rose, the physical contrast between the two men became significant. Mr. Letgood's heavy frame, due to self-indulgence or to laziness, might have been taken as a characteristic product of the rich, western prairies, while Deacon Hooper was of the pure Yankee type. His figure was so lank and spare that, though not quite so tall as his visitor, he appeared to be taller. His face was long and angular; the round, clear, blue eyes, the finest feature of it, the narrowness of the forehead the worst. The mouth-corners were drawn down, and the lips hardened to a line by constant compression. No trace of sensuality. How came this man, grey with age, to marry a girl whose appeal to the senses was already so obvious? The eyes and prominent temples of the idealist supplied the answer. Deacon Hooper was a New Englander, trained in the bitterest competition for wealth, and yet the Yankee in him masked a fund of simple, kindly optimism, which showed itself chiefly in his devoted affection for his wife. He had not thought of his age when he married, but of her and her poverty. And possibly he was justified. The snow-garment of winter protects the tender spring wheat. “It's late,” Mr. Letgood began slowly, “I must be going home now. I thought you might like to hear the news, as you are my senior Deacon. Your advice seems excellent; I shall weigh the 'call' carefully; but”--with a glance at Mrs. Hooper--“I am disposed to refuse it.” No answering look came to him. He went on firmly and with emphasis, _“I wish_ to refuse it.--Good day, Mrs. Hooper, _till next Sunday_. Good day, Deacon.”