shivering in the doorway of the parsonage, "and may you live to enjoy a
hundred."

"Come in; come in," cried Parson Whitney, in response, "I'm glad you've
come; I'm glad you've come. I've been wanting to see you all the
morning," and in the cordiality of his greeting, he literally pulled the
little man through the doorway into the hall and hurried him up the
stairway to his study in the chamber overhead.

"Thinking of me! Well, now, I never," exclaimed the deacon, as, assisted
by the parson, he twisted and wriggled himself out of the coat that he a
little too snugly filled for an easy exit. "Thinking of me, and among
all these books, too; bibles, catechisms, tracts, theologies, sermons;
well, well, that's funny! What made you think of me?"

"Deacon Tubman," responded the parson, as he seated himself in his
arm-chair, "I want to talk with you about the church."

[Illustration: "_I want to talk with you about the church._"]

"The church!" ejaculated the deacon, in response, "nothing going wrong,
I hope?"

"Yes, things are going wrong, deacon," responded the parson; "the
congregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good,
strong, biblical, soul-satisfying sermons, I think."

"Good ones! good ones!" answered the deacon, promptly; "never better;
never better in the world."