“I suppose you’ve never been up in these parts before?”
“No,” Maxwell responded; “but I’ve always intended to come up during the season for a little hunting some time. Was there much sport last year?”
“Well, I can’t say as there was, and I can’t say as there wasn’t. The most I recollect was that two city fellers shot a guide and another feller. But then it was a poor season last fall, anyway.”
Maxwell gave the Junior Warden a quick look, but there was not a trace of a smile on his face, and Hepsey chuckled. Keeping her eyes on the horses 20 as they trotted along at a smart pace over a road none too smooth for comfortable riding, she remarked casually:
“I suppose the Bishop told you what we wanted in the shape of a parson, didn’t he?”
“Well, he hinted a few things.”
“Yes; we’re awful modest, like most country parishes that don’t pay their rector more than enough to get his collars laundered. We want a man who can preach like the Archbishop of Canterbury, and call on everybody twice a week, and know just when anyone is sick without bein’ told a word about it. He’s got to be an awful good mixer, to draw the young people like a porous plaster, and fill the pews. He must have lots of sociables, and fairs, and things to take the place of religion; and he must dress well, and live like a gentleman on the salary of a book-agent. But if he brings city ways along with him and makes us feel like hayseeds, he won’t be popular.”
“That’s a rather large contract!” Maxwell replied with a smile.
“Yes, but think what we’re goin’ to pay you: six hundred dollars a year, and you’ll have to raise most of it yourself, just for the fun of it.”