Eben Huckin’s father had been a United Presbyterian and his mother a Methodist. Eben belonged to neither church, a fact which he ascribed to his having been drawn toward both denominations by forces so exactly equal that he had never become affiliated with either. Yet he prided himself on being a man of profound religious convictions. How could it be otherwise with one whose forefathers had for generations sung psalms and slept through two-hour sermons on the hard, uncomfortable benches of the bluest of blue-stocking Presbyterianism or prostrated themselves at the mourners’ bench on every opportunity? The austerity of these ancestors afforded him a reason for habitually absenting himself from Sunday services in either of the two temples where his parents had so long and faithfully worshiped. The church-folk in the valley were getting entirely too liberal. He was a conservative.

[220]

“‘Hen the United Presbyter’ans hes to hev an organ to sing by an’ the Methydists gits to hevin’ necktie parties an’ dancin’, it’s time for a blue-stockin’ like me to set at home o’ Sundays an’ dewote himself to readin’ Lamentations,” he was wont to explain to his cronies at the store.

Holding as he did such puritanical ideas, it is not to be wondered that he viewed with bitter hostility the coming of an Episcopal clergyman to West Salem. He had offered no objection when Samuel Marsden, who owned nearly all the land surrounding the village, married a woman from the city, but when that young autocrat turned the United Presbyterians out of the building where they had worshiped for a century and had an Episcopal minister come from down the river to hold weekly services there, the blood of all the Huckins boiled and Eben felt called upon to protest.

At first these protests took the form of long discourses, delivered on the store porch and touching on the evil of introducing “ceety notions an’ new-fandangled idees” into the spiritual life of the community. They continued in this strain until one fine April day when the sun was shining with sufficient warmth to allow Eben and his cronies to move from the darkness within the store to the old hacked bench without, where they could bask in the cheering rays.

The green shoots on the tall maple by the[221] hitching rail, the shouts of the boys fishing in the creek below the rumbling mill, the faint “gee haw” of the man who was plowing in the meadow across the stream, the contented clucking of a trio of mother hens, wandering up and down the village street with a score of piping children in their wake—these and a hundred other things told that spring was at hand. After their long winter of imprisonment the shoemaker, the squire and the blacksmith would have been contented to enjoy themselves in silence, but Eben was in one of his talkative moods. That very morning his niece had announced her intention of forsaking the church in which her fathers had worshiped, and becoming an Episcopalian. His cup of woe was overflowing. He had been able to view with complacence such defections in other families. They had afforded him splendid illustrations with which to enliven his discourses on the weakness of the generality of mankind. He had set the Huckins above the generality. It had seemed to him impossible that one could err who boasted the blood of men who had gone to church with the Bible in one hand and a gun in the other. He had always laid particular stress on that point. He was a firm believer in heredity and had long contended that the descendants of those who first settled the valley were blessed with strong characters. Yet one of the blood had become an Episcopalian! And he had met the rector!

[222]

“The first I knowd of it was this mornin’ at breakfast,” said Eben, adjusting his steel-rimmed spectacles that he might look over their tops so sternly as to check any hilarity on the part of his auditors. “Mary sais to me, ‘Uncle, I wish you’d spruce up a leetle this afternoon ez the rector’s comin’.’

“‘Mary,’ sais I, thinkin’ I’d cod her jest a leetle, ‘a miller runs a mill, a tinner works in tin, a farmer farms, but what in the name of common sense does a rector do?’

“‘I mean the preacher,’ she answers.

“‘Mary,’ I sais, ‘ef the parson heard you a callin’ him sech new-fandangled names, he’d hev you up before the session.’

“She was quiet a piece, for she seen I was in a wery sewere turn o’ mind. I didn’t pay no more attention tell I was jest about gittin’ up from the table ’hen she spoke up agin.

“‘Uncle,’ she sais, ‘I hope you won’t mind, but that’s what we Piscopaleens calls preachers—rectors. Mr. Dawson is a rector.’

“Well, sirs, I was so took back, I jest set down an’ gasped. I thot I was goin’ to hev a stroke. Here was one o’ my blood, my own brother’s dotter, raised on the milk o’ Presbyter’anism, fergittin’ the precepts o’ her youth, strayin’ out o’ the straight an’ narrow way an’ takin’ up with the new-fandangled idees o’ the Piscopaleens. An’ why? Because she liked the singin’! ’Hen I[223] heard that I rose in my wrath an’ started down here to cool off. On reachin’ the apple tree be the bend in the road, I set down on the grassy bank to rest a leetle an’ look ’round. Pretty soon I see a man comin’ over the medder, an’ ez he got close I knowd be the cut o’ his coat an’ the flatness o’ his black slouch that it was the preacher hisself. ’Hen he reached the creek he give a run an’ jump an’ went flyin’ over it in the most ondignifiedest way I ever seen. ‘It seems like he thinks he’s an angel a’ready an’ is spreadin’ his wings,’ I sais to meself. Then he puts both hands on the top o’ the six-rail fence an’ waults over it like a circus performer, landin’ almost at me feet.

“‘Hello,’ he sais.

“‘Hello,’ sais I, never liftin’ me eyes offen the wheat field acrosst the road.

“‘Fine day,’ sais he.

“‘I was jest tryin’ to make up me mind whether it was or not,’ sais I.

“I thot that ’ud settle him, but I mistook me man. He were the thickest headedest, forwardest felly I ever laid eyes on. He jest laughed. Now I admits that ’hen he laughed he ’peared a tol’able pleasant enough sort o’ a leetle person, but I wasn’t in no frame o’ mind fer jollyin’.

“‘I was jest on me way up to your placet to see ye,’ he sais.

“‘Was ye?’ I answers. ‘Well—I heard ye was comin’. I’m jest on me way to store.’

[224]

“It almost seemed I could see that gentle hint comin’ outen his one ear after it hed gone in the other.

“‘So ye waited here fer me,’ sais he. ‘How nice of ye! We’ll jest stroll down to the willage together.’

“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I’ve changed me mind. I’m goin’ to stay where I am.’

“‘Ye couldn’t a picked a nicer placet,’ he sais.

“An’ with that he set right down be me side. Mad? Why, I was jest bubblin’. An’ I hed a right to be, fixed ez I was with a Piscopaleen preacher stickin’ to me closer then a burdock burr to a setter dog’s tail. I didn’t say a word, but jest set there with me eyes on the mo’ntain like he wasn’t about.

“By an’ by he speaks. ‘Mr. Huckin, that’s a nice mule you hev runnin’ ’round the pasture adjoinin’ our church.’

“‘So,’ sais I.

“‘An’ mebbe you wouldn’t mind pasturin’ him in some other field a Sunday,’ he went on. ‘Ye mind a few weeks ago I sent you a message askin’ that you keep your cattle out o’ that field on the Sabbath because they disturbs our service. Ye mind it, don’t ye?’

“‘Dimly,’ I answers.

“‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I guesst it must ’a’ ben pretty dim, fer last week ye forgot to take ’em[225] out an’ added that nice mule to the flock. I like that beast mighty well, but I objects to his puttin’ his head in the chancery winder durin’ the most solemn part of our service, like he done the other day.’

“‘Hen I pictured that ole mule attendin’ the ’Piscopaleen preachin’ I wanted to laugh all over, but I didn’t dast fer it ’ud ’a’ give him an openin’. I jest turned an’ looked at the preacher ez stern ez I could.

“‘Perhaps,’ I sais, ‘these new-fandangled, ceetyfied goin’s on o’ yourn amused him.’

“He didn’t smile then—not a bit of it. He was riled—bad riled, an’ pinted his finger at me an’ cried, ‘See here, you old hardshell.’ That was the wery name he called me. ‘See here,’ he sais. ‘Since I’ve ben a missionary in this community I’ve tried to conduct meself in a proper an’ humble sperrit, but ef I hev to carry my missionary efforts on among the mules, I’ll do it with a gun.’

“‘Hen I heard that I stood right up an’ glared at him. I didn’t mind his shootin’. It wasn’t that what stirred me up. It wasn’t that what made me shake me stick in the air like I was scotchin’ a chestnut tree. No, sirs.

“‘Mission’ry!’ I sais. ‘Then all we is heathen,’ I sais. ‘Parson, folks hev ben singin’ sams in this walley fer a hundred an’ fifty year. The folks in this walley hes ben contributin’ to the support o’ mission’ries in furrin lan’s fer the last[226] cent’ry. There are more camp-meetin’s, an’ bush-meetin’s, an’ protracted meetin’s, an’ revivals an’ love-feasts in this walley in a year than they are years in your life. Yit you calls yourself a mission’ry. You complains about my cattle disturbin’ your meetin’s. Ef they enjoy listenin’ to your mission’ry efforts in behalf o’ we heathen, I don’t think I otter stop it. You might do ’em some good.’

“With that I turned an’ walked down the road. I never looked ’round tell I come to the edge o’ the peach orchard. Then I peeked back over me shoulder. There was the preacher, still standin’ be the apple tree lookin’ after me. He was smilin’. Mighty souls! Smilin’! I could ’a’ choked him.”

An oak tree, upturned, its roots stretched forth appealingly in the air, its branches washing helplessly to and fro in the stream, a broken scow lying high upon the beach, bottom up, a great crevasse in the side of the canal through which could be seen an imprisoned and deserted canal-boat, told of the spring flood. The Juniata had fallen again to its natural courses, but it was still turbulent and the current was running strongly. It was fast growing dark. Heavy clouds were rolling along the mountains from the west whence sounded the low grumbling of the coming storm.

Eben Huckin, standing by his boat, looked[227] anxiously up the river, and then across to where the village had been lost in the fast gathering blackness. By a hard pull to the opposite bank and a run up half a mile of level road he might make the shelter of the mill before the clouds broke. But this meant tremendous exertion and Eben, with the rust of sixty years in his joints, preferred a drenching. So he tucked his basket in the locker in the stern and fixed his oars as deliberately as though the sun were smiling overhead. Then he began to push out into the stream.

The rattle of gravel flying before fast falling feet and a crashing of laurel bushes along the towpath caused him to pause.

“Hold on there!” came a voice. “Take me over.”

A moment later a man emerged from among the trees and came tumbling down the bank. It was Dawson. He stopped short and hesitated when he saw Eben, and was about to turn back when the old man said brusquely, “Git in.”

Impelled by a flash of lightning ............