the house, and was intent only on reaching Mr. Belcher's pew.

Bending to his patron's ear, he whispered a few words, received a few
words in return, and then retired. The proprietor's face was red with
rage and mortification, but he tried to appear unconcerned, and the
services went on to their conclusion. Boys who sat near the windows
stretched their necks to see whether smoke was issuing from the
poor-house; and it is to be feared that the ministrations of the morning
were not particularly edifying to the congregation at large. Even Mr.
Snow lost his place in his sermon more frequently than usual. When the
meeting was dismissed, a hundred heads came together in chattering
surmise, and when they walked into the streets, the report of Benedict's
escape with his little boy met them. They understood, too, why Buffum
had come to Mr. Belcher with his trouble. He was Mr. Belcher's man, and
Mr. Belcher had publicly assumed responsibility for him.

No more meetings were held in any of the churches of Sevenoaks that day.
The ministers came to perform the services of the afternoon, and,
finding their pews empty, went home. A reward of one hundred dollars,
offered by Mr. Belcher to any one who would find Benedict and his boy,
"and return them in safety to the home provided for them by the town,"
was a sufficient apology, without the motives of curiosity and humanity
and the excitement of a search in the fields and woods, for a universal
relinquishment of Sunday habits, and the pouring out of the whole
population on an expedition of discovery.

Sevenoaks and its whole vicinity presented a strange aspect that
afternoon. There had slept in the hearts of the people a pleasant and
sympathetic memory of Mr. Benedict. They had seen him struggling,
dreaming, hopeful, yet always disappointed, dropping lower and lower