Smoothing out with one soft, plump hand the pages of the large Bible which lay on the pulpit cushion in front of him, he raised the other impressively, and shot a comprehensive and penetrating glance toward his humble and unpretending auditors. This glance, proceeding from under a pair of shaggy eyebrows, and passing over the gold-rimmed spectacles set low on his nose, was intended as a kind of preliminary shot to awaken in the congregation any who were sleepily disposed, and to draw the attention of each one of his parishioners to the unusually “great effort” which he was about to make. And it must be confessed that this impressive manner and sharp glance had the effect of uncomfortably arousing several rather torpid individuals who had settled themselves comfortably into their pews, and on whom the ministrations of the Rev. Mr. Holworthy had usually the effect of the droning of a bumble bee in August. “Wonder if we’re going to have another ‘Great Awakenin’’ such as I remember forty years ago,” said Deacon Weatherby to himself. “The minister ’pears to have something powerful on his mind.” And Deacon Weatherby, like several others in the congregation, shook off the sleepy fit which usually came on with great regularity as soon as he had settled himself in his pew. He now sat bolt upright, with an air of alertness that he did not manifest even in the numerous keen horse trades in which he participated, and in which he was always credited with coming off “first best.” The Rev. Jonathan Holworthy, who had stood in silence with his hand on the page of the open Bible, critically surveying the assembled farmers and village folks of Middlebrook, appeared to be well satisfied with the effect of his unusual impressiveness. He therefore proceeded to deliberately announce his text, repeating it twice, slowly, as if each word were heavy, and he had to lift it with an effort: “Love-worketh-no-ill-to-his-neighbour--Love-worketh-no-ill-to-his- neighbour.” Having thus delivered his text with much solemnity, and having apparently divided it in his mind under several heads, the Rev. Mr. Holworthy first addressed himself to the subject of Love. But Love cannot be said to have been the particular game which he was hunting in the great oratorical effort which he had planned for himself that morning. Beyond a few general platitudes interspersed with Scriptural quotations, he did not, therefore, expatiate upon this branch of his discourse. It was only when he came to consider the subject of “his neighbour” that he may be said to have really struck the trail, and to have warmed up in the pursuit of his argument. “Who is my neighbour?” he suddenly demanded, with so much imperative force, that a half-witted young man, who sat in the front row, promptly replied, “Ike Hunniwell, the infidel.”