The Scotch preacher squared around toward her and cleared his throat.

"It's the baptisms," he said: "when a baby is brought for baptism, of
course it must have a baptismal gift. What is the best gift for a baby?
A spoon. So we present it with a spoon. To-day we discovered we had only
three spoons left, and company coming. Man, 'tis a proleefic
neighbourhood."

[Illustration: "LET MY AXE FALL"]

He heaved a great sigh.

Harriet rushed out and made up a package. When she came in I thought it
seemed suspiciously large for spoons, but the Scotch preacher having
again launched into the lore of the chopper, took it without at first
perceiving anything strange. Five minutes after we had closed the door
upon him he suddenly returned holding up the package.

"This is an uncommonly heavy package," he remarked; "did I say
table-spoons?"

"Go on!" commanded Harriet; "your wife will understand."

"All right--good-bye again," and his sturdy figure soon disappeared in
the dark.

"The impractical man!" exclaimed Harriet. "People impose on him."

"What was in that package, Harriet?"