"Oh, I get a world of good out of this one, especially. Wife sometimes tells me 't an't no use to read it; but," said Job, with a gleaming intelligence in his queer face, as the sunset glow deepened upon it, "what do you think I tell her?"
Father Brighthopes knew some pleasant sally was coming, and encouraged him to proceed.
"I tell her," said Job, quietly chuckling, "the study of Barnes makes my faith stable."
This little jest appealed to the sympathies of the farmers, and they honored it with a laugh. Job was radiant with joy.
"I wish the Notes was condensed into half the number of volumes," he proceeded, under this encouragement. "If I had time to read them, the more the better. But I find them like the waters of a deep stream."
Father Brighthopes saw a joke in Job's twinkling eyes, and asked him to explain the comparison.
"Ha! ha!" Job laughed, in spite of himself. "It's a little conundrum I made to amuse my good woman, in one of her bad turns. Why are Barnes' Notes like the waters of a deep stream? Answer,—because one would find them easier to get over, if they were a-bridged."
The company laughed again; and the clergyman thought it best that they should take leave at the moment when Job was elated with his brilliant success.
"It was in the year 'seventeen," spoke up the grandmother, rousing from her dreams, as they were going away; "I remember it as well as if 'twas yesterday."
"Poor woman!" muttered Job, with feeling, "I've no doubt but she remembers it a great deal better, whatever it is."