"The rural deanery or down you go," was the fiat, and reluctantly the Bishop gave the chaplain his promise.
His kept his promise, too, and after the death of Dr. Mackarness that same chaplain and rural dean became his successor, and is now Bishop of Argyle and the Isles.
[THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.]
HALLOWEEN FAGOTS.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
A heavy farm wagon was lumbering along, raising clouds of dust, as the children, each with a bag suspended from his or her arm, hailed the driver for a lift. They were so tired, for they had been scouring the woods for hours, each striving to see whose bag would be the heaviest when they set their faces homeward; and now, as the yellow gold of the afternoon sunset was fast deepening into night, and there was yet many a weary mile between these Thornton woods and their supper, for which everybody had over and again testified that he was "just starving," they begged for a ride.
The driver was a middle-aged man, somewhat crippled and bent with toil. His shoulders were round, his chest hollow, his hair a mixture of brown and gray; but his big honest blue eyes shone with a kindly light, that softened the harsh skin as he called "Whoa!" and the children hurriedly climbed, some over the wheels, and others by the back and front—any way to get in—and a moment later the indulgent if homely man had a wagon-load of pleasant company.
"Well done, gals and boys; many's the time I wuz jist as spry, but I haven't done it for nigh unto twenty year." And he pointed to the large knots on his hands that showed the effect of rheumatism. But his misfortunes had not soured him, for he was anxious to learn all about the happy day. And they all had a turn in telling him.