“Mebbe she’s got her books in one of ’em,” suggested Abner.
“A whole trunkful of books! Land sakes! You must be crazy. Nobody but a minister would want so many books as that. An’ it’s a clear waste for the parson to buy so many as he does. If he didn’t spend so much money that way, his wife could dress a little more decent. Why, the man’s got at least two or three hundred books already, and yet he’s always wantin’ to buy more.”
“I guess his wife wouldn’t want the trunks for her clothes,” suggested Abner.
“You are right,” said Mrs. Slocum, nodding. “I declare I’m sick and tired of that old bombazine she’s worn to church the last three years. A stranger might think we stinted the minister.”
“Precisely, Mrs. Slocum,” said a voice behind her. That’s my opinion.”
“Oh, Dr. Titus, is that you?” said the old lady, turning.
“What is left of me. I’ve been making calls all the afternoon, and I’m used up. So you think we are stinting the minister?”
“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Slocum, indignantly. “I think we pay him handsome. Five hundred dollars a year and a donation party is more’n some of us get.”
“Deliver me from the donation party!” said the doctor hastily. “I look upon that as one of the minister’s trials.”
“I s’pose you will have your joke, doctor,” said Mrs. Slocum, not very well pleased. “I tell you a donation party is a great help where there’s a family.”
“Perhaps it is; but I am glad it isn’t the fashion to help doctors in that way.”
Dr. Titus was a free spoken man, and always had been. His practice was only moderately lucrative but it was well known that he possessed a competency, and could live comfortably if all his patients deserted him; so no one took offense when he expressed heretical notions. He had a hearty sympathy for Mr. Wilson, the Congregational minister, who offended some of his parishioners by an outward aspect of poverty in spite of his munificent salary of five hundred dollars a year.
“The doctor’s got queer notions,” muttered Mrs. Slocum. “If he talks that way, mebbe the minister will get discontented. But as I say to Deacon Slocum, there’s more to be had, and younger men, too. I sometimes think the minister’s outlived his usefulness here. A young man might kinder stir up the people more, and make ’em feel more convicted of sin. But I must go and tell the folks about the new school teacher. I’d like to see what sort she is.”
Mrs. Slocum’s curiosity was gratified. On her way back from the store she saw Miss Frost sitting at the open window of her chamber in the hotel.
“Looks as if she might be proud,” muttered the old lady. “Fond of dress, too. I don’t believe she’ll do for Granville.”
Although Mrs. Slocum was in a hurry to get home she could not resist the temptation to call at Squire Hadley’s and let him know that the school teacher had arrived. Squire Benjamin Hadley was the chairman of the School Committee. Either of the two Granville ministers would have been better fitted for the office, but the Methodists were unwilling to elect the Congregational minister, and the Methodist minister was opposed by members of the other parish. So Squire Hadley was appointed as the compromise candidate, although he was a man who would probably have found it extremely difficult to pass the most lenient examination himself. He had left school at twelve years of age, and circumstances had prevented his repairing the defects of early instruction. There were times when he was troubled by a secret sense of incompetence — notably when he was called upon to examine teachers. He had managed to meet this emergency rather cleverly, as he thought, having persuaded Mr. Wilson to draw up for him a series of questions in the different branches, together with the correct answers. With this assistance he was able to acquit himself creditably.
“Can’t stay a minute, Squire,” said Mrs. Slocum, standing on the broad, flat door stone. “I thought I’d jest stop an’ tell ye the school teacher has come.”