“True, that isn’t very old. I’m a year or two older myself.” (The deacon was fifty-nine.) “But then I am not a preacher. People don’t seem to consider age an objection in a deacon. If they did, I hope I should be willin’ to sacrifice myself on the altar of dooty.”
Mr. Fenwick rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the study. He was very much agitated, and heart-sore at the thought that the people who were so near to him should wish him to go.
“How long have you seen signs of disaffection, Deacon Crane?” he asked, pausing in his walk.
“Well, for about two years, I reckon, Mr. Fenwick.”
“And yet the people seem to come to church in as large numbers as usual.”
“It is their sense of dooty, parson. They feel that they ought to come.”
“That may be. It is certainly very commendable. I only mention it to let you understand why I have not noticed this feeling.”
“Of course, I needn’t say, parson, that I am very sorry to be the one chosen to tell you how matters stand. You see, there was a meetin’ of a few of your parishioners at my house last night, and we talked the matter over, and it was thought best that I should give you a hint.”
“May I ask who were at your house, Deacon Crane?”
“Well, I don’t think I ought to tell. Some of them might be unwilling.”