“The usual honorarium is—h’m—ten dollars.” “The—_whut_?” “The—the fee.” “Will you write me one for ten dollars?” “Why—why—” said the minister, nervously; “I didn’t know that any one had—had died—“ “There hain’t no one died, ez I know. It’s _my_ fun’l sermon I want.” “But, my dear Mr. Hitt, I trust you are not—that you won’t—that—“ “Life’s a rope of sand, parson—you’d ought to know that—nor we don’t none of us know when it’s goin’ to fetch loost. I’m most ninety now, ’n’ I don’t cal’late to git no younger.” “Well,” said Mr. Pursly, faintly smiling; “when the time _does_ come—“ “No, _sir_!” interrupted Mr. Hitt, with emphasis; “when the time _doos_ come, I won’t have no use for it. Th’ ain’t no sense in the way most folks is berrid. Whut’s th’ use of puttin’ a man into a mahog’ny coffin, with a silver plate big’s a dishpan, an’ preachin’ a fun’l sermon over him, an’ costin’ his estate good money, when he’s only a poor deef, dumb, blind fool corpse, an’ don’t get no good of it? _Naow_, I’ve be’n to the undertaker’s, an’ hed my coffin made under my own sooperveesion—good wood, straight grain, no knots—nuthin’ fancy, but doorable. I’ve hed my tombstun cut, an’ chose my text to put onto it—’we brung nuthin’ into the world, an’ it is certain we can take nuthin’ out’—an’ now I want my fun’l sermon, jes’ as the other folks is goin’ to hear it who don’t pay nuthin’ for it. Kin you hev it ready for me this day week?” “I suppose so,” said Mr. Pursly, weakly. “I’ll call fer it,” said the old man. “Heern some talk about a Perrish House, didn’t I?” “Yes,” began Mr. Pursly, his face lighting up. “‘Tain’t no sech a bad _i_dee,” remarked Brother Joash. “Wal, good day.” And he walked off before the minister could say any thing more. * * * * * One week later, Mr. Pursly again sat in his study, looking at Brother Joash, who had a second time settled himself in the dark corner. It had been a terrible week for Mr. Pursly. He and his conscience, and his dream of the Parish House, had been shut up together working over that sermon, and waging a war of compromises. The casualties in this war were all on the side of the conscience. “Read it!” commanded Brother Joash. The minister grew pale. This was more than he had expected. He grew pale and then red and then pale again. “Go ahead!” said Brother Joash. “Brethren,” began Mr. Pursly, and then he stopped short. His pulpit voice sounded strange in his little study. “Go ahead!” said Brother Joash. “We are gathered together here to–day to pay a last tribute of respect and affection—“ “Clk!” There was a sound like the report of a small pistol. Mr. Pursly looked up. Brother Joash regarded him with stern intentness. “—to one of the oldest and most prominent citizens of our town, a pillar of our church, and a monument of the civic virtues of probity, industry and wisdom, a man in whom we all took pride, and—“