“They would not be willing. We must accept what they choose to give, and in the form in which they choose to give it.”
“I hope, father, I shall some time be able to relieve you from such dependence.”
“I wish, for your own sake, you might have the ability, my son, even if I did not require it.”
The first to arrive was old Mrs. Pulsifer. She carried in her hand a hideous pincushion, answering the description which Miss Bassett had given of it.
“I made it with my own hands, Mrs. Wilson,” she said complacently. “As the apostle says, `Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I unto thee.'”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pulsifer,” said the minister’s wife, trying to look pleased, and failing.
The next visitor was Mrs. Slocum, who brought a couple of dyspeptic looking pies and a loaf of bread.
“I thought you might need ’em for the company” she said.
“You are very kind, Mrs. Slocum,” said Mrs. Wilson. She was quite resigned to the immediate use of Mrs. Slocum’s gift.
Next came Mrs. Breck. She, too, contributed some pies and cake, but of a better quality than her predecessor. Close upon her followed Clarissa Bassett, bearing aloft the gorgeous pincushion, which she presented with a complacent flourish to Mrs. Wilson.
“It’ll do for your best room, Mrs. Wilson,” she said. “I see you’ve got one pincushion already,” eying Mrs. Pulsifer’s offering disdainfully.
“I expect several more,” said Mrs. Wilson, smiling faintly. “We are generally well remembered in that way.”
Next Mrs. and Miss Raymond sailed into the room and made their way to where the minister was.
“Mr. Wilson,” said Clementina, with a charming air of patronage, “we do not belong to your flock, but we crave the privilege of participating in this pleasant visit and showing our appreciation of your ministrations. I hope you will accept this small testimonial from my mother and myself.”
She left in the minister’s hands a bottle of cologne, which she had purchased at the village store that morning for fifty cents.
“Thank you, Miss Raymond,” said Mr. Wilson gravely, “quite as much for your words as for your gift.”
Was there conscious satire in this speech? If so, neither Miss Raymond nor her mother understood it. They made way for Mr. Randolph Chester, who, indeed, had escorted them to the parsonage.
“Reverend sir,” said Mr. Chester with elaborate formality, “I hardly knew what to bring you, but I am sure that books are always welcome to literary men. May I hope that you will give this volume a place in your library?”
As he spoke he handed the minister a small edition of Scott’s poems, complete in one volume, and in such fine print as to make it perilous for a person of any except the strongest eyesight to undertake its perusal. Mr. Chester admitted that he was in independent circumstances, and Mr. Wilson had hoped for a present of some real value, but he felt compelled to accept this paltry gift with an appearance of gratitude.
The next half dozen arrivals were laden down with provisions. A committee of ladies took charge of these, and spread a large table, on which all the articles that were cooked were at once placed.
While this was going on, Mrs. Squire Hadley arrived with a dress pattern for Mrs. Wilson. It was a cheap calico of large figure, very repugnant to the taste of the minister’s wife, whose heart sank within her as she accepted it, for she knew that Mrs. Hadley would never forgive her if she did not have it made up. Mrs. Hadley had got it at a bargain at the store, where it had lain on the shelves for several seasons without finding a purchaser.
“Dress goods are always acceptable, Mrs. Wilson,” she said with the air of one conferring a favor. “I hope you may find this of service.”
And Mrs. Wilson was obliged to thank her.
“Brother Wilson,” said the Rev. Adoniram Fry in a cheery voice, “I hope I do not intrude. The fact is, I couldn’t keep away. I hope you will not be too proud to accept a small gift from your Methodist brother;” and he placed in the minister’s hand a five dollar bill.