The speaker was the Rev. Joseph Mentor, D. D., a gray-haired, keen-eyed, large-brained, sweet-faced, grand old Christian. He sat in his own parlor, which was not a parlor, after all, but a sort of study; lined with books on every hand, almost crowded with easy chairs; convenient little writing-tables occupying cosy corners, with all the appurtenances thereto lavishly furnished, coaxing the privileged guest to write his letters, or arrange his neglected accounts, or read items from the various journals of the day, at his elbow, as his taste might dictate.
The present occupants of the room were three; the aforesaid Doctor, leaning back at rest in his favorite study chair—his life had been a long, grand one, and if ever disciple of the Master could afford to rest on earth, the Rev. Joseph Mentor might have claimed the privilege; yet his very rest was active; the Doctor's son, a young man of twenty-five or so, now co-pastor, who had excused himself to their guest, in the manner that one may treat guests who are almost as much at home as they are themselves—on the plea that there were two important letters to answer for the evening mail—and then had turned to one of the writing-tables, leaving his father to entertain the young man with a pale face and scholarly air, who sat in a half-dejected attitude in the straight-backed, old-fashioned chair near the Doctor. It was to him that the old gentleman had turned with the apparently abrupt statement,—
"I want to tell you a story, young man?"
That the young man would be glad to hear any story that Doctor Mentor might choose to honor him with, was evident from the flash of his eyes and the instant look of interest that overspread his face.
Then the Doctor began: "About a month ago I attended the funeral of a man in whom I have taken a deep interest all my life. He was an old man, and a plain man all his long life; yet, though I have attended a great many funerals in the last half-century, I don't think I ever saw a greater uprising of the people to offer the last tribute of respect and affection to a plain man in their midst. I want to tell you a little about that man. Miller, his name was, Daniel Miller; he was older than I, and in my young days I used to watch him from his pew in the church. I liked his face, even then, before I knew him; a grave, half-sad face, yet never gloomy—only a look of patient resignation to the inevitable. A Christian man he was, one of the sterling sort. Talk with anybody in that town about him, and they would pay almost instant tribute to his sterling worth, and almost always close with, 'What a pity that such a good man as he is should be so hard of hearing.'
"That was his trouble, and a great trouble it was. I suppose it was the means of breaking in pieces a number of plans of his youth. Well, the thought was written all over his patient, sad face: 'I am hard of hearing and growing worse. It destroys my usefulness, it hinders my work in every direction, it makes me appear unsocial and unsympathetic, in short, it is a burden hard to be borne.' As I watched him, I could see that this feeling grew upon him; grew with his infirmity, and that progressed quite rapidly.
"You have no idea, I suppose, what a drawback it was to him on all occasions. It got so that he didn't dare to open his lips in the prayer meeting. He would look all around him, to see whether anybody was speaking, but some of the members had a way of keeping their seats when they talked, so he found that he couldn't tell by their position, and once or twice he arose and began to pray when some one was talking; he was a diffident man, and it embarrassed him dreadfully. Then he used to say that he never knew whether what he had to offer was in a line with what had been said, or was very wide of the mark; and if the minister asked him to pray, he had to shout out the request, and sometimes poor Mr. Miller couldn't hear it, and his wife would have to give his elbow a nudge, and lean over and whisper to him loud enough for all the house to hear, 'He wants you to lead in prayer.'
"It was a real embarrassment all around. People didn't wonder that he gradually grew into the feeling that he couldn't take part very often in religious meetings; though I never thought that was right; I always believed that his prayers would be in a line with what the Lord wanted to have said, and that he would be safe enough, whether he followed the line of the others or not.
"So it went on, Daniel Miller growing deafer and deafer, and the patient, sad look on his face deepening, and the feeling growing in his heart that he wasn't of any use to the Church of Christ that he loved with all his soul.
"One day somebody in that church had an inspiration. 'I tell you what it is,' one of the members said, bringing down his doubled-up fist on the seat before him for emphasis, 'I believe we ought to make Daniel Miller our treasurer. That thing would suit him, and he is just the man to do the work.'