“Oh, there’s no doubt that a chapel is wanted, and if it was four times as big as the kitchen it would soon be full. I would give anything if we could manage it.”
“There you gooa, y’ see,” said Adam, laughing. “There’s payt o’ t’ silver an’ gowld riddy at yance. Ah sall set te wark an’ pray for ’t, an’ seea mun wa’ all. It’ll be gran’ day for Nestleton,” said Adam, rubbing his hands in fond anticipation, for he never dreamed of questioning the “mighty power of faithful prayer.”
Farmer Houston shook his head as he turned away saying, “It’s too good to be true, Adam. It’s too good to be true.”
“What’s too good to be true?” said Mrs. Houston, who now appeared on the scene. A large and shady bonnet for “home service,” of printed calico, protected her from the sun. In her hand was a milk-can, containing the mid-day meal of certain calves she was rearing, for Mrs. Houston was a thrifty, bustling body, who not only saw that all the woman folk of the establishment did their duty, but was herself the first to show the way. Crossing the farmyard just at that moment she overheard the words, and hence her inquiry, “What’s too good to be true?”
“Why,” said Adam Olliver, “t’ maister’s gotten it intiv ’is heead that if the divvil an’ Squire Fuller says we aren’t te hev a Methodist chapel i’ Nestleton, t’ Almighty’s gotten te knock under an’ leave His bairns withoot a spot te put their heeads in.”
“Nay, nay,” said Farmer Houston, deprecatingly, “I was only saying that there was small hope of our getting a chapel at all.”
“An’ ah was sayin’,” persisted Adam, “’at we mun pray for it, an’ ah weean’t beleeave ’at prayer’s onny waiker then it was when Peter was i’ prison, or when t’ heavens was brass for t’ speeace o’ three years an’ six months. It oppen’d t’ iron yatt for Peter an’ t’ brass yatt for t’ rain, an’ it’ll oppen d’ gold an’ silver yatt for uz. Missis, we’re gannin’ te hev a Methodist chapel!”
“Well done, Adam! I think you’re in the right. I don’t see how it’s going to be done, but if the way is open, you may depend on it I’ll do my best.”
A fourth party here appeared upon the scene. This was none other than Mrs. Houston’s eldest daughter, Grace, a genteel and pleasant-looking girl of twenty—one who could play the piano and milk a cow with equal willingness and skill, could knit a wool cushion or darn a stocking, and did both with deft fingers that knew their business. She, too, sided with Adam Olliver, and, with the sanguine impulsiveness of youth, began to discuss the ways and means, and even hinted at so unheard-of a marvel as a Nestleton Methodist bazaar.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Adam Olliver, as he shouldered his “toppers,” and strolled away with them. “As seeaf as theease toppers is gannin’ to Beeachwood Pasther, there’ll be a Methodist chapel i’ Nestleton cum Can’lemas twel’month. Seea we’d better leeak sharp an’ get things riddy.”