WE are in the valley of humiliation. Since the church has been rejected, it has an opportunity to understand how a candidate feels when he is rejected. I am inclined on consideration to recall the last paragraph of the last chapter. I am inclined to think Mr. Uncannon may prove a "means of grace" to us yet. He has certainly been a thorn in the side.

On further consideration, I do retract it. I here emphatically record that first thoughts are not always best thoughts, and that it is my sober second judgment that Mr. Uncannon has done us more good than he has the parish at North Bizzy. We gave him to them grudgingly. But it has been a case in which the proverb applies: It is more blessed to give than to receive. For Mr. Uncannon's flirtation has probably given us Maurice Mapleson for a pastor.

Two weeks ago I was coming up from New York on the train. Deacon Goodsole was in the seat in front of me. My satchel was my only traveling companion. And I, according to custom, was enjoying a train nap, when I was aroused by a hand on my shoulder coupled with a hearty "Hallo! you could not be sounder asleep if you were in church and Dr. Argure was in the pulpit."

It was Mr. Wheaton.

"Good afternoon," said I. "Sit down." And my satchel exchanged its seat for a place in my lap in order to make room for Mr. Wheaton on the seat beside me.

"Look here, gentlemen," said Mr. Wheaton, taking the proffered seat, "we've been fooling about this minister business long enough."

"Been fooled you mean," said Deacon Goodsole.

"I tell you," said Mr. Wheaton, slapping his knee by way of emphasis, "that young Maurice Mapleson is the man for us. The more I think of it the more I am sure of it."

"He is a right earnest man," said the Deacon. "I think he was the first spark we have seen in the ashes of our prayer meeting for many a day."

"Can't you get him to come down, Mr. Laicus?" asked Mr. Wheaton.

I shook my head resolutely.

"Not as a candidate you know, but on some dodge or other. Invite him to spend a week with you, and book on to him for the pulpit when Sunday comes."

"He isn't the man for dodges," said the Deacon, doubtfully.

I shook my head as decidedly to the second proposition as to the first.

"Well then," said Mr. Wheaton, "if he won't come here we will have to go there. It isn't far."

The Deacon doubted whether the church would agree to deviate from the old paths.

"They wouldn't have done it," said Mr. Wheaton. "But they'll agree to anything now I think."

"Mr. Gear recommended that plan when we first met," said I. "He will approve of it. But how as to Mr. Hardcap?"

"Oh! no matter about Hardcap," said Mr. Wheaton, "he's no account."

"Excuse me," said I, "he is one of our committee and is of account."

So after some consultation it was finally agreed that we should get off at the Mill Village Station to see Mr. Gear, and then walk up to Wheathedge. Deacon Goodsole also proposed to put Mr. Hardcap on the special committee to go to Koniwasset Corners, and Mr. Wheaton said he would furnish a free pass over the road to all who would go. No man is impervious to compliments if they are delicately administered. At all events Mr. Gear was sensibly pleased by having us call on him in a body. And Mr. Hardcap, when he found that the new plan involved a free ride on the railroad and a Sunday excursion for himself, withdrew all objections.

My wife says, "For shame, John," and wants me to strike that last sentence out. But it is true, and I do not know why it should not stand. It is in confidence you know.

The next Saturday Mr. Wheaton, Mr. Hardcap and Deacon Goodsole started for Koniwasset Corners. They reached it, or rather they reached Koniwasset, the nearest point, Saturday evening, and Sunday morning rode over, a drive of five miles. It was a beautiful day; the congregation turned out well; the little church was full, and Maurice, unconscious of the presence of a committee, and preaching, not to fish............