"Daniel Miller took hold of the work with a will, I tell you, and the work was never better done. His 'infirmity,' as he always meekly called it, was a positive advantage to him. There wasn't any use in trying to tell him how the accounts stood, or explain away this or that; he couldn't hear; it all had to be reduced to writing. And when a man sits down in quiet to make a written account of anything that another man is expected to fully understand, why he uses language carefully, don't you see? You don't suppose they were foolish enough, when his year was out to go and put in another treasurer, do you? Not a bit of it; the machine was running too smoothly. They elected him again by as large a vote as before. "'It does my heart good,' one old lady said, 'to see Daniel Miller go up for the collections on Sundays. He does it with such a glad look on his face, as if he had found out something he could do for the church, and do well.' "He did it well, too; no mistakes. By and by he began to send out little notes with his bills: 'We owe it to our pastor to pay his quarter's salary on the day promised.' Well, sir, when the next quarter's salary was paid the morning of the day: on which it was due, without having been asked for or run after, that minister thought the millennium was about to dawn! He hadn't been used to that sort of thing. You never saw anything like the promptness with which pew rents were paid in the church. If a man was twenty-four hours behind time, he was almost sure to receive a call from Mr. Miller; no writing notes this time. That man understood human nature well. Just imagine a gentleman standing in his store or office, and trying to carry on a conversation with Daniel Miller about not having paid his pew rent. 'Money has been a little short with me lately,' he begins, 'and I thought a few days' delay—' "'What is it?' interrupts Daniel, with his hand to his ear. 'I'm hard of hearing, you know; speak a little louder, please.'