The problem which pressed heaviest of all on the Preacher’s heart in this crisis was how to save Mrs. Gaston’s home.
“If that place is sold next week, my dear,” he said to his wife, “she will never survive.”
“I know it. She is sinking every day. It breaks my heart to look at her.”
“What can we do?”
“I’m sure I can’t tell. We’ve given everything we have on earth except the clothes on our back. I haven’t another piece of jewelry, or even an old dress.”
“The tax and the costs may amount to a hundred and seventy-five dollars. There isn’t a man in this county who has that much money, or I’d borrow it if I had to mortgage my body and soul to do it.”
“I’ll tell you what you might do,” his wife suddenly exclaimed. “Telegraph your old college mate in Boston that you will accept his invitation to supply his pulpit those last two Sundays in August. They will pay you handsomely.”
“It may be possible, but where am I to get the money for a telegram and a ticket?”
“Surely you can borrow some here!”
“I don’t know a man in the county who has it.”