Father Baguss groaned, and some influence--the old man in later days laid it upon the arch-enemy of souls--suggested to him the foolishness of having gone into so great an operation without first counting the cost; hadn’t the great Founder of the old man’s religious faith enjoined a counting of the cost of any enterprise before entering upon it? Father Baguss wished _that_ chapter of Holy Writ might have met his eye that morning at the family altar; but it had not, and, worse yet, Tappelmine was becoming wide awake and excited. It was not what the drunkard had said about drinking or church-going that troubled this would-be reformer; Tappelmine’s outline of his material condition was what annoyed Father Baguss; for, in spite of an occasional attempt to mentally allay his fears by falling back upon prayer, the incentive with which he had called upon Tappelmine had taken strong hold of his conscience, and persisted in making its influence felt. Plows and prayers, harrows and hopes, seed-corn and the seed sown by the wayside mixed themselves inextricably in his mind, as parallels often do when men dream, or when they are confronted by an emergency beyond the control of their own intellects. The old man prayed silently and earnestly for relief, and his prayer was answered in a manner not entirely according to his liking, for he felt moved to say, “_I’ll_ lend you seed, if you’ll go to work an’ put it right in, an’ I’ll lend you a plow and a team to break up the ground with--I mean, I’ll hire ’em to you, an’ agree to buy your crop at rulin’ price, an’ pay you the difference in cash.” “That sounds somethin’ like,” remarked Tappelmine, thrusting his hands into his trowsers’ pockets, and making other preparations for a business talk; “but,” he continued, “what am I to live on along till harvest? ’Tain’t even winter yet.” Father Baguss groaned, and asked, “What was you a-goin’ to live on if I hadn’t offered seed and tools, Tappelmine?” “The Lord knows,” answered the never-do-well, with unimpeachable veracity. “Then,” said the old farmer, “I guess he knows what you’ll do in t’other case. You can work, I reckon. _I_ hain’t got much to do, but you can do it, at whatever prices is goin’, an’ that’ll help you get work of other folks; nobody can say I get stuck on the men I hire. So they’re generally glad enough to hire ’em themselves.” Tappelmine did not seem overjoyed at his prospects, but he had the grace to say that they were better than he had expected. Father Baguss went home, feeling but little more comfortable than when he had started on his well-intended mission. Tappelmine sauntered into his own cabin, wondering how much of the promised seed-corn and wheat he could smuggle into town and trade for whiskey; but he was rather surprised to have his wife, a short, thin, sallow, uninteresting-looking woman, who had been listening at the broken window, approach him, throw her arms about his neck, and exclaim,