Hay snatched his tools, kissed a couple of thankful tears out of his wife’s eyes, and was soon busy on the cow-shed, with the Deacon looking on. “George,” said the Deacon suddenly, causing the carpenter to stop his hammer in mid-air, “think it over agen, an’ say two dollars.” Hay gave the good Deacon a withering glance, and for a few moments the force of suppressed profanity caused his hammer to bang with unusual vigor, while the owner of the cow-shed rubbed his hands in ecstasy at the industry of his _employe_. The air was bracing, the Winter sun shone brilliantly, the Deacon’s breakfast was digesting fairly, and his mind had not yet freed itself from the influences of the Sabbath. Besides, he had secured a good workman at a low price, and all these influences combined to put the Deacon in a pleasant frame of mind. He rambled through his mind for a text which would piously express his condition, and texts brought back Sunday, and Sunday reminded him of the meeting of the night before. And here was one of those very men before him—a good man in many respects, though he _was_ higher-priced than he should be. How was the cause of the Master to be prospered if His servants made no effort? Then there came to the Deacon’s mind the passage, “——he which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins.” What particular sins of his own needed hiding the Deacon did not find it convenient to remember just then, but he meekly admitted to himself and the Lord that he had them, in a general way. Then, with that directness and grace which were characteristic of him, the Deacon solemnly said: “George, what is to be the sinner’s doom?” “I dunno,” replied George, his wrath still warm; “‘pears to me you’ve left that bizness till pretty late in life, Deac’n!” “Don’t trifle with sacrid subjec’s, George,” said the Deacon, still very solemn, and with a suspicion of annoyance in his voice. “The wicked shall be cast into hell, with—” “They can’t kerry their cow-sheds with ’em, neither,” interrupted George, consolingly. “Come, George,” said the good Deacon, in an appealing tone, “remember the apostle says, ‘Suffer the word of exhortation.’” “’Xcuse me, Deac’n, but one sufferin’ at a time; I ain’t through sufferin’ at bein’ beaten down yet. How about deac’ns not being ‘given to filthy lucre?’” The good Deacon was pained, and he was almost out of patience with the apostle for writing things which came so handy to the lips of the unregenerate. He commenced an industrious search for a text which should completely annihilate the impious carpenter, when that individual interrupted him with: