"Richard, Richard! you must not use sech a word as that," and Mrs.
Farrington cast a reproving glance at her son. "Ye must hev heerd it from
Tom Jones; ye know ye never hear it at home, fer we are allus very
pertickeler about our language."

"Well, money, then, ma. I don't care what ye call it."

"Oh, I guess that'll not be hard to account fer," replied Farrington with
a knowing laugh. "Tom Fletcher may be able to throw some light upon the
subject. It seems to me that the parson has come to the end of his rope.
We've borne with 'im fer years, an' it's about time he was makin' a move.
He's too old fer the ministry. We need a young man, with fire an' vim.
Anyway, the rest may do as they please, but as fer me not another cent do
I pay as long as he is in charge."

"Ye've allus paid well, Si," remarked his wife, "an' the parson is not one
bit grateful."

"Yes, I reckon I hev," and Farrington gulped down, his tea. "I used to
contribute heavily; eight dollars a year, an' a bag of oats at Christmas.
Now I give only four sense I've enlarged my bizness an' can't afford so
much. Besides, the parson doesn't deal with me as much as he should. He
gits too many of his supplies in the city. If he expects me to paternise
'im he must deal with me. I've told 'im so very plainly on several
occasions."

"Ye certainly did yer part, Si," Mrs. Farrington replied. "If all in the
parish 'ud do as well there'd be no trouble. It is disgraceful that these
country people do not pay more to support the Church. It throws sich a
burden upon us. Only think of Mrs. Jimmy Brown buyin' a new Bristles