The collector departed empty-handed.

The next time Sam went to Millford he was considerably
surprised to have the young minister, the Reverend Hugh
Grantley, stop him on the street and hand him twenty-five
dollars.

"I understand, sir, that you wish to withdraw the money
that you invested in the Lord's work," he said as he
handed the money to Sam, whose fingers mechanically closed
over the bills as he stared at the young man.

The Rev. Hugh Grantley was a typical Scotchman, tall and
broad shouldered, with an eye like cold steel. Not many
people had contradicted the Rev. Hugh Grantley, at least
to his face. His voice could be as sweet as the ripple
of a mountain stream, or vibrate with the thunder of the
surf that beats upon his own granite cliffs.

"The Lord sends you seed-time and harvest," he said,
fixing his level gray eye on the other man, who somehow
avoided his gaze, "has given you health of body and mind,
sends you rain from heaven, makes his sun to shine upon
you, increases your riches from year to year. You have
given Him twenty-five dollars in return and you regret
it. Is that so?"

"I don't know that I just said that," the other man
stammered. "I don't see no need of these fine churches