“Thank you, Brother Fry,” said Mr. Wilson, grasping his hand cordially. “I see you understand what I most need;” this last remark being in a lower voice.
“I ought to, Brother Wilson. I never yet knew a minister who couldn’t find a use for a five dollar bill.”
Deacon Uriah Peabody entered next.
“I’ve brought you a bushel of apples, parson,” he said. “My boy’ll carry ’em round to the kitchen. This is a joyful day for you. Your house will overflow with the bounties of Providence.”
Such speeches as these the minister, in spite of his meekness, found it hard to listen to without impatience.
“I hope it may,” he said gravely. “I shall be glad to have my daily anxieties lightened.”
“They will be,” said the deacon. “I calc’late you won’t to have to buy much for a month to come.”
The Rev. Theophilus was better informed. He knew that all but a small remnant of the provisions brought in would be consumed before the company dispersed, and that two days more would suffice to dispose of the last of the donations. But he did not venture to say this. It would have given serious offense to the visitors, who felt that the minister’s family could not be grateful enough for their very liberal gifts.
Mrs. Kent and Mabel were late. The former handed Mr. Wilson an envelope containing a ten dollar bill.
“A joint gift from Miss Frost and myself,” she said. “Properly it is not a gift, but a small part of what we owe you.”
The minister brightened up, not only because he suspected that the envelope contained money, which was the most acceptable form in which a donation could come, but because the words indicated appreciation, and a proper estimate of his relation to the donation visit. They helped him to bear the patronizing manner of Mrs. Bennett, the butcher’s wife, who followed with two cheap collars for Mrs. Wilson.
“Things is brightenin’ up for you, Mr. Wilson,” said she. “Times is hard, but we’re doin’ what we can to help you along. I’d like to do more myself, but my husband has so many bad bills, and so much trouble in collectin’ his money, that we’re straitened when we shouldn’t be.”
The minister was painfully aware that he was one of the debtors who found it hard to pay his bills, and he knew that Mrs. Bennett’s speech was meant for a hint.
Supper was by this time ready, and the ladies and gentlemen filed out to the supper table with alacrity. It was, doubtless, the consciousness that they were engaged in a philanthropic action that increased the appetites of the good people. At any rate, there was very little left on the table when the repast was over. All present seemed in excellent spirits. Congratulations poured in upon the minister and his wife, who, it appeared to be thought, were in great luck.
“Guess this’ll put you on your feet, parson,” said Deacon Peabody, a little huskily, for he had stuffed half of a large doughnut into his mouth. “The people have come for’ard very liberal today.”
“Yes,” said the minister unenthusiastically.
“Reminds me of the land flowin’ with milk an’ honey,” resumed the deacon.
“If it could only last,” thought Mr. Wilson. On ordinary days there was small appearance of plenty on the minister’s frugal board, and, as his guests were consuming about all they brought, there seemed small chance of an improvement.
There was a turn in the tide, however. A parcel was brought from the express office, containing a neat cashmere dress, entirely made up, for Mrs. Wilson. This was accompanied by a note from Mary Bridgman, the donor, to this effect:
DEAR MRS. WILSON: — As I still retain your measure, I have, made up this dress for you, and trust it may prove a good fit. I hope you will receive it in the same spirit in which it was sent. Your true friend, MARY BRIDGMAN.
It was long since the minister’s wife had had a new dress, and the prospect of another had seemed remote enough. Nothing, therefore, could be more timely and acceptable, and the little woman, for the first time during the afternoon, seemed actually cheerful.