"Didn't stop for an umbrella," explained the man, rubbing his hands
before the stove, in which the minister was striving to kindle a
livelier blaze.
Divested of his dripping coat and hat he appeared somewhat stooped
and feeble; he coughed slightly, as he gazed about the room.
"What's the matter here?" he inquired abruptly; "don't they pay you
your salary?"
The minister explained in brief his slight occupancy of the
parsonage; whereat the stranger shook his head:
"That's wrong--all wrong," he pronounced: "A parson should be married
and have children--plenty of them. Last time I was here, couldn't
hear myself speak there was such a racket of children in the hall.
Mother sick upstairs, and the kids sliding down the banisters like
mad. I left the parson a check; poor devil!"
He appeared to fall into a fit of musing, his eyes on the floor.
"I see you're wondering who I am, young man," he said presently.
"Well, we're coming to that, presently. I want some advice; so I
shall merely put the case baldly.... I wanted advice, before; but the
parson of that day couldn't give me the right sort. Good Lord! I can
see him yet: short man, rather stout and baldish. Meant well, but his
religion wasn't worth a bean to me that day.... Religion is all very
well to talk about on a Sunday; broadcloth coat, white tie and that
sort of thing; good for funerals, too, when a man's dead and can't
answer back. Sometimes I've amused myself wondering what a dead man
would say to a parson, if he could sit up in his coffin and talk five
minutes of what's happened to him since they called him dead.
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