were $800 for his salary, $170 for the rent of the parsonage, and $319
for interest on the debt. It seemed that last year the receipts had
fallen just under $2,000, and they now confronted the necessity of
making good this deficit during the coming year, as well as increasing
the regular revenues. Without much discussion, it was agreed that they
should endeavor to secure the services of a celebrated "debt-raiser,"
early in the autumn, and utilize him in the closing days of a revival.

Theron knew this "debt-raiser," and had seen him at work--a burly,
bustling, vulgar man who took possession of the pulpit as if it were an
auctioneer's block, and pursued the task of exciting liberality in the
bosoms of the congregation by alternating prayer, anecdote, song,
and cheap buffoonery in a manner truly sickening. Would it not be
preferable, he feebly suggested, to raise the money by a festival, or
fair, or some other form of entertainment which the ladies could manage?

Brother Pierce shook his head with contemptuous emphasis. "Our
women-folks ain't that kind," he said. "They did try to hold a sociable
once, but nobody came, and we didn't raise more 'n three or four
dollars. It ain't their line. They lack the worldly arts. As the
Discipline commands, they avoid the evil of putting on gold and costly
apparel, and taking such diversions as cannot be used in the name of the
Lord Jesus."

"Well--of course--if you prefer the 'debt-raiser'--" Theron began, and
took the itemized account from Gorringe's knee as an excuse for not
finishing the hateful sentence.

He looked down the foolscap sheet, line by line, with no special sense
of what it signified, until his eye caught upon this little section of