The baby doubled up, and squirmed, and wiggled his toes, and gasped with glee.
“Yes,” the parson continued, “that you might manage Parson All of Satan’s Trap.”
“T’ be sure!” cried Skipper Jonathan. “We’ll manage un, an’ be glad!”
Aunt Tibbie’s face fell.
“That’s good,” said the parson. “Now, that is good news. ’Tis most kind of you, too,” he added, earnestly, “in these hard times. And it ends my anxiety. The brethren are now all provided for.... Hey, you wriggler! Come out of that! Ha, ha! Well, well!” He took the baby from the cradle. “Gi’ me a kiss, now. Hut! You won’t? Oh, you will, will you?” He kissed the baby with real delight. “I thought so. Ha! I thought so.” He put the baby back. “You little slobbery squid!” said he, with a last poke. “Ha! you little squid!”
Aunt Tibbie’s face was beaming. Anxiety and weariness were for the moment both forgot. ’Twas good, indeed, to have Parson Jaunt drop in!
“Eh, woman?” Jonathan inquired.
“Oh, ay!” she answered. “We’ve always a pillow an’ a bite t’ eat for the Lard’s anointed.”
“The Lord’s anointed!” the parson repeated, quickly. “Ah, that’s it, sister,” said he, the twinkle gone from his upturned eyes. “I’ve a notion to take that up next Sunday. And Parson All,” he continued, “is a saintly fellow. Yes, indeed! Converted at the age of seven. He’s served the Lord these forty years. Ah, dear me! what a profitable season you’ll be having with him! A time of uplifting, a time of—of—yes, indeed!—uplifting.” The parson was not clever; he was somewhat limited as to ideas, as to words; indeed, ’twas said he stuttered overmuch in preaching and was given to repetition. But he was sincere in the practise of his profession, conceiving it a holy calling; and he did the best he could, than which no man can do more. “A time,” he repeated, “of—of—yes—of uplifting.”
Aunt Tibbie was taken by an anxious thought. “What do he fancy,” she asked, “for feedin’?”