WHEN the Preacher took the train in Boston for the South, his friendly merchant, a deacon, was by his side. “Now, you put my name and address down in your note book, William Crane. And don’t forget about us.” “I’ll never forget you, deacon.” “Say, I just as well tell you,” whispered the deacon bending close, “we are not going to allow you to stay down South. We’ll be down after you before long--just as well be packing up!” The Preacher smiled, looked out of the car window, and made no reply. “Well, good-bye, Doctor, good-bye. God bless you and your work and your people! You’ve brought me a message warm from God’s heart. I’ll never forget it.” “Good-bye, deacon.” As the train whirled southward through the rich populous towns and cities of the North, again the sharp contrast with the desolation of his own land cut him like a knife. He thought of Legree and Haley, Perkins and Tim Shelby robbing widows and orphans and sweeping the poverty-stricken Southland with riot, pillage, murder and brigandage, and posing as the representatives of the conscience of the North. And his heart was heavy with sorrow. On reaching Hambright he was thunderstruck at the news of the sale of Mrs. Gaston’s place and her tragic death. “Why, my dear, I sent the money to her on the first Monday I spent in Boston!” he declared to his wife. “It never reached her.” “Then Dave Haley, the dirty slave driver, has held that letter. I’ll see to this.” He hurried to the postoffice. “Mr. Haley,” he exclaimed, “I sent a money order letter to Mrs. Gaston from Boston on Monday a week ago.” “Yes, sir,” answered Haley in his blandest manner, “it got here the day after the sale.” “You’re an infamous liar!” shouted the Preacher. “Of course! Of course! All Union men are liars to hear rebel traitors talk.” “I’ll report you to Washington for this rascality.” “So do, so do. Mor’n likely the President and the Post-Office Department’ll be glad to have this information from so great a man.” As the Preacher was leaving the post-office he encountered the Hon. Tim Shelby dressed in the height of fashion, his silk hat shining in the sun, and his eyes rolling with the joy of living. The Preacher stepped squarely in front of Tim. “Tim Shelby, I hear you have moved into Mrs. Gaston’s home and are using her furniture. By whose authority do you dare such insolence?” “By authority of the law, sir. Mrs. Gaston died intestate. Her effects are in the hands of our County Administrator, Mr. Ezra Perkins. I’ll be pleased to receive you, sir, any time you would like to call!” said Tim with a bow. “I’ll call in due time,” replied the Preacher, looking Tim straight in the eye. Haley had been peeping through the window, watching and listening to this encounter. “These charmin’ preachers think they own this county, brother Shelby,” laughed Haley as he grasped Tim’s outstretched hand.