After twenty-five years of waiting, he had been able at last to
kindle it. Everybody in Mariposa remembers the building of the
church. First of all they had demolished the little stone church to
make way for the newer Evidence. It seemed almost a sacrilege, as
the Dean himself said, to lay hands on it. Indeed it was at first
proposed to take the stone of it and build it into a Sunday School,
as a lesser testimony. Then, when that provided impracticable, it was
suggested that the stone be reverently fashioned into a wall that
should stand as a token. And when even that could not be managed, the
stone of the little church was laid reverently into a stone pile;
afterwards it was devoutly sold to a building contractor, and, like
so much else in life, was forgotten.

But the building of the church, no one, I think, will forget. The
Dean threw himself into the work. With his coat off and his white
shirt-sleeves conspicuous among the gang that were working at the
foundations, he set his hand to the shovel, himself guided the
road-scraper, urging on the horses; cheering and encouraging the men,
till they begged him to desist. He mingled with the stone-masons,
advising, helping, and giving counsel, till they pleaded with him to
rest. He was among the carpenters, sawing, hammering, enquiring,
suggesting, till they besought him to lay off. And he was night and
day with the architect's assistants, drawing, planning, revising,
till the architect told him to cut it out.

So great was his activity, that I doubt whether the new church would
ever have been finished, had not the wardens and the vestry men
insisted that Mr. Drone must take a holiday, and sent him on the
Mackinaw trip up the lakes,--the only foreign travel of the Dean's
life.