The New Bloomfield, Pa. times. (New Bloomfield, Pa.) 1877-188?, 1881-10-25
The Parsons Visitor.

THE Wednesday evening prayer-meet-
ing was over. The fifteen or twen-
ty parishoners, mostly womenfolk,
who had been in attendance, had scat
tered up and down the quiet rural street
in the direction of their homes. The
Rev. Amos Dale, who had that evening
to perform the double function of sex
ton and pastor, the sexton having hired
out to a farmer at some distance from the
village for the planting and hoeing sea-
son, fingered behind his flock to put out
the kerosene lights in the lecture.room.
This done he came up the basement
stairs, and out on the stone steps, where
he stopped to lock the door. A tall,
awkward man, the Rev. Amos Dale,
with straight, iron gray hair, a trifle
too long, and deep, rugged lines in his
face. He is extremely nearsighted, and
has much ado to see the keyhole in this
doubtful light, but at length the door is
locked, and with his hands clasped be-
hind his back, and his head bent little
forward, he strolled away up the street,
the most absent-minded and biggest
hearted man you will see in many
day.
Walking thus toward the post-office
for his evening paper, with no eagerness
for good or evil tidiDgs, but with heart
at peace with itself, the good man is
aware of how heavily freighted the
sweet June dusk is with the fragrance of
the locusts and syringas.
"Come for yer mail, Elder ?'' asks
Joel Bean, the postmaster, looking up
from the paper which he is reading be-
hind the counter, for the post. office and
and store are together.
The minister replies pleasantly in the
affirmative, and Joel hands him out a
paper. The Rev. Amos takes it and
turns to leave, but the postmaster says,
Hold on a minute, Elder, you've
got letter tonight, too" and as he
gives it to him he looks inquisitively
at his face. The letter is addressed in a
lady's handwriting, graceful and re-
fined.
Nothing remarkable in this, surely,
and yet it startles Amos Dale little as
he looks at the letter lying in his hand.
He bids Joel Bean good-evening, and
goes on his way up the hill to the par
sonage, thinking as he goes how long 1t
is since he has had letter from a
woman.
His thoughts fly back to a packet of
old letters, yellow of paper now, and
faded of ink, lying in corner of pri-
vate drawer in his desk; letters written
to him while he was student, more
than fifteen years ago, full of maidenly
reserve and yet of woman's love-
There had come day when the num-
Der of these letters was complete, never
to be added to. That other letters could
be written and another love won, it had
never entered the heart of the Rev.
Amos Dale to conceive.
He soon reached his own gate, and a
few of his long strides took him through
the old.fashioned box-bordered garden
to the door of the parsonage between the
lilac bushes. He went into the sitting
room-a large, bare, orderly room. A
red and black table cover was on the
centre-table; firmly planted in the mid
die stood broad. .shouldered lamp with
a green paper shade. Beside the table,
darning stockings, sat Hannah Breeze
his distant relative and housekeeper,
who had come directly home from the
prayer-meeting.
Hannah, who was not of the fairest
among women, having general effect
of dull gray--hair, eyes, complexion,
alpaca and all-looked up when the