But sleep failed even to follow this pious reflection. Suppose--only suppose, of course--that he were to give--lend, that is--lend Hay money enough to dress his family fit for church--think what a terrible lot of money it would take! A common neat suit for a man would cost at least thirty dollars, an overcoat nearly twice as much; a suit cloak, and other necessities for his wife would amount to as much more, and the children--oh, the thing couldn't be done for less than two hundred and fifty dollars. Of course, it was entirely out of the question--he had only wondered what it _would_ cost--that was all. Still no sleep. He wished he hadn't spoken with Hay about his soul--next time he would mind his own business. He wished he hadn't employed Hay. He wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent had never taken place. "No man can come to me except the Father which sent me draw him"--he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted it at the meeting--it was no light matter to interfere with the Almighty's plans. "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." Hah! _Could_ that carpenter be in the room, disarranging his train of thought with such--such--tantalizing texts! They had kept him awake, and at his time of life a restless night was a serious matter. Suppose-- Very early the next morning the village doctor, returning from a patient's bedside, met the Deacon with a face which suggested to him (the doctor was pious and imaginative) "Abraham on Mount Moriah." The village butcher, more practical, hailed the good man, and informed him he was in time for a fine steak, but the Deacon shook his head in agony, and passed on. He neared the carpenter's house, stopped, tottered, and looked over his shoulder as if intending to run; at length he made his way behind the house, where Hay was chopping firewood. The carpenter saw him and turned pale--he feared the Deacon had found cheaper labor, and had come to give him warning. "George," said the Deacon, "I've been doin' a heap of thinkin' 'bout what we talked of yesterday. I've come to say that if you like I'll lend you three hundred dollars fur as long as ye'v a mind to, without note, security or int'rest; you to spend as much of it ez ye need to dress you an' yer hull fam'ly in Sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the Savin's Bank, at interest, to go on doin' the same with when necessary. An' all of ye to go to church when ye feel so disposed. An' ef nobody else's pew-door opens, yer allus welcome to mine. And may the Lord" the Deacon finished the sentence to himself--"have mercy on my soul." Then he said, aloud: "That's all."