“Weddings, funerals, and all?”
“Well, yes,” reluctantly, “I b’lieve so. I did feel bad when we follered the minister to his grave without any tollin’—he was master fond o’ hearing that bell, fust along—but there, it couldn’t be helped! Public opinion was against that ’ere particular bell, and we jes’ got laughed at, ringin’ it. So we stopped, and here we be, without it.”
Mr. Olsen’s blue eyes sparkled again as he caught his little wife’s glance, half amused, half pained. He changed the subject, and went among his parishioners, inquiring kindly for the absent ones, and making new friends.
At a quarter before three (the hour for afternoon service) he entered the meeting-house again. The sexton was asleep in one of the pews. He was roused by a summons so startling that a repetition was necessary before he could comprehend its import.
“R-ring the bell!” he gasped incredulously. “W-why, sir, it hasn’t been rung for”—
“Never mind, Mr. Bedlow,” interrupted Harold, with his pleasant smile. “Let’s try it to-day, just for a change.”
Harold had attended one or two prayer-meetings, as well as Sunday services, and—had an idea.
On reaching the entry, the sexton shivered in the cold air, and pointed helplessly to a hole in the ceiling, through which the bell rope was intended to play.
“I put it up inside out of the way, so’s the boys couldn’t get it,” he chattered. “D-don’t you think, sir, we’d better wait till”—
But it was no use to talk to empty air. The new minister had gone, and presently returned with a long heavy bench, which he handled as easily as if it were a lady’s work-basket.