If the First Church had a revival, the Second Church had a fair. If the pastor of the First Church exchanged with a distinguished preacher from Philadelphia, the organist of the Second Church got a celebrated tenor from Boston and had a service of song. This system after a time created a class in both churches known as “the floats,” in contradistinction to the “pillars.” The floats went from one church to the other according to the attractions offered. There were, in the end, more floats than pillars. The Reverend Mr. Pursly inherited this contest from his predecessor. He had carried it on for three years. Finally, being a man of logical and precise mental processes, he called the head men of his congregation together, and told them what in worldly language might be set down thus: There was room for one Congregational Church in ’Quawket, and for one only. The flock must be reunited in the parent fold. To do this a master stroke was necessary. They must build a Parish House. All of which was true beyond question—and yet—the church had a debt of $20,000 and a Parish House would cost $15,000. And now the Reverend Mr. Pursly was sitting at his study window, wondering why all the rich men _would_ join the Episcopal Church. He cast down his eyes, and saw a rich man coming up his path who could readily have given $15,000 for a Parish House, and who might safely be expected to give $1.50, if he were rightly approached. A shade of bitterness crept over Mr. Pursly’s professional smile. Then a look of puzzled wonder took possession of his face. Brother Joash Hitt was regular in his attendance at church and at prayer–meeting; but he kept office–hours in his religion, as in everything else, and never before had he called upon his pastor. Two minutes later, the minister was nervously shaking hands with Brother Joash Hitt. “I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Hitt,” he stammered, “very glad—I’m—I’m—“ “S’prised?” suggested Mr. Hitt, grimly. “Won’t you sit down?” asked Mr. Pursly. Mr. Hitt sat down in the darkest corner of the room, and glared at his embarrassed host. He was a huge old man, bent, heavily–built, with grizzled dark hair, black eyes, skin tanned to a mahogany brown, a heavy square under–jaw, and big leathery dew–laps on each side of it that looked as hard as the jaw itself. Brother Joash had been all things in his long life—sea–captain, commission merchant, speculator, slave–dealer even, people said—and all things to his profit. Of late years he had turned over his capital in money–lending, and people said that his great claw–like fingers had grown crooked with holding the tails of his mortgages. A silence ensued. The pastor looked up and saw that Brother Joash had no intention of breaking it. “Can I do any thing for you, Mr. Hitt?” inquired Mr. Pursly. “Ya–as,” said the old man. “Ye kin. I b’leeve you gin’lly git sump’n’ over ’n’ above your sellery when you preach a fun’l sermon?” “Well, Mr. Hitt, it—yes—it is customary.” “How much?”