“Because it might hurt your feelin’s, parson.”
“I will not allow my feelings to stand in the way, so be kind enough to answer the question frankly and candidly.”
“Then, if I must say it,” replied the deacon, watching under his shaggy eyebrows to see what effect his words would have upon Mr. Fenwick, “if I must say it, some of the people are sayin’ it might be well for the parish to have a younger minister!”
Mr. Fenwick started as if he had been struck. He was utterly unprepared for this communication. He had lived among his people for twenty years, and no thought of separation had come to him.
He turned pale, and endeavored to stifle his emotion.
“I—I was not prepared for this, Deacon Crane,” he said. “Are the people really getting tired of me?” he added, with a tremor in his voice.
“Of course there are some of us that stand by you, parson; for instance, myself and Mrs. Crane. But I regret to say that some of the younger people are gettin’ uneasy, and think that a change might be for the benefit of the parish.”
“Will you name to me some of the disaffected ones, Brother Crane?”
“No, I’d rather not. You see, they all respect you. You see, you’re gettin’ into years, parson.”
“I am fifty-one.”