The Rev. Harold Olsen’s eyes twinkled.
“How long have you gone without this unfortunate bell?”
“Oh! a matter o’ two or three years, I guess.”
“Weddings, funerals, and all?”
“Well, yes,” reluctantly, “I b’lieve so. I did feel bad when we follored 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.