Before reaching Madam Brewster’s on the walk that Charles had taken, you pass the church and residence of Parson Davis. Nature had not intended Mr. Davis for a pastor, and his sermons were the bane of his life; an excellent man, a most efficient pastor for a village, a gentleman, a scholar, abounding in good, practical sense, but not a preacher; sometimes he wrote sermons, sometimes he tried them without the book, but let him do as he would, there was always a conviction of failure as to his sermons winning their way to his hearers hearts. He was of medium height, keen features, black hair, mingled with gray. The house was built of white stone and was a commodious residence; some of the rooms had been added to the house of late years. Mrs. Davis’ room was very pleasant to sit in on a summer’s day when the grass was green and the many colored flowers with their gay brightness and their perfume gladdened the senses, and the birds were singing and the bees and butterflies sporting. Mrs. Davis was a lady-like woman of middle height and fair complexion, she was remarkably susceptible to surrounding influences, seasons and weather held much power over her. A dark figure was leaning over the gate of Parson Davis, shaded by the dark trees, but though the features of the face were obscure, the outline of the clerical hat was visible, and by that Mr. Davis was known. Charles Taylor stopped: “You are going this way late” said the parson. “It is late for a visit to Mrs. Brewster’s, but I wish particularly to see them.” “I have just returned from there,” said Mr. Davis. “Mary Ann grows weaker, I hear.” “Yes, I have been holding prayer with her.” Charles Taylor felt shocked. “Is she so near death as that,” he inquired in a hushed tone. “So near death as that” repeated Mr. Davis in an accent of reproof. “I did not expect to hear such a remark from you, Mr. Taylor; my friend, is it only when death is near that we are to pray?” “It is mostly when death is near that prayers are held over us,” replied Charles Taylor. “True, for those who have known when and how to pray for themselves; look at that girl passing away from among us, with all her worldly thoughts, her selfish habits, her evil, peevish temper, but God’s ways are not like our ways; we might be tempted to ask why such as these are removed, such as Janey left, the one child as near akin to an angel as it is possible to be here; the other, in our blind judgment, we may wonder that she, most ripe for heaven, should not be taken to it, and the other one left to be pruned and dug around, to have, in short, a chance given her of making herself better.” “Is she so very sick?” “I think her so, as well as the doctor, it was what he said that sent me up; her frame of mind is not a desirable one, and I have been doing my best; I shall be with her again to-morrow.” He continued his way and Mr. Davis looked after him until his form disappeared in the shadows cast by the roadside trees.