I smiled a little. It always amuses me that the troubles of the church should be so often brought to me who am an outsider. Aunt Naomi arrives about once a month on the average, with complaints about something. They are seldom of any especial weight, but it seems to relieve her to tell her grievances.
"Which Deacon Daniel?" I asked, to tease her a little.
"Deacon Richards, of course. You know that well enough."
"What is it now?"
"He won't have any fire in the vestry," she answered.
"Why not let somebody else take care of the vestry then, if you want a fire?"
"You don't suppose," was her response, with a chuckle, "that he'd give up the key to anybody else, do you?"
"I should think he'd be glad to."
"He'll hold on to that key till he dies," retorted Aunt Naomi with a sniff; "and I shouldn't be surprised if he had it buried with him. He wouldn't lose the chance of making folks uncomfortable."