here."

Perry Purtett was the name on the door, and opposite the sign of an
_omnium-gatherum_ country-store hinted that Perry was deceased. The hint
was a broad one. Wade read, "Ringdove, Successor to late P. Purtett."

"It's worth a try to get in here out of the pagan barbarism around. I'll
propose--as a lodger--to the widow."

So said Wade, and rang the bell under the roses. A pretty, slim, delicate,
fair-haired maiden answered.

"This explains the roses and the melodeon," thought Wade, and asked, "Can
I see your mother?"

Mamma came. "Mild, timid, accustomed to depend on the late Perry, and
wants a friend," Wade analyzed, while he bowed. He proposed himself as a
lodger.

"I didn't know it was talked of generally," replied the widow,
plaintively; "but I have said that we felt lonesome, Mr. Purtett bein'
gone, and if the new minister"--

Here she paused. The cut of Wade's jib was unclerical. He did not stoop,
like a new minister. He was not pallid, meagre, and clad in unwholesome
black, like the same. His bronzed face was frank and bold and unfamiliar
with speculations on Original Sin or Total Depravity.

"I am not the new minister," said Wade, smiling slightly over his
moustache; "but a new Superintendent for the Foundry."