So the ball grew—­grew so large that one day it rolled toward the parsonage in the shape of a letter, carefully phrased, conciliatory, soothing—­meant to be; “every confidence in his integrity and kindness of heart and good intentions,” and every other virtue under the sun.  But, well, the fact was the “young people” did not feel quite satisfied, and they felt that, on the whole, by and by, toward spring, perhaps, or when he had had time to look around him and determine what to do, a change would be for the best, both, for himself and for the cause.  Indeed, they were persuaded that he himself needed a change—­his nervous system imperatively demanded it.

Let me tell you what particular day that letter found its way to the parsonage:  a rainy, dreary day in the early winter, when the ground had not deliberately frozen over, and things generally settled down to good solid winter weather, but in that muddy slushy, transition state of weather when nothing anywhere seems settled save clouds, dun and dreary, drooping low over a dreary earth; came when the minister was struggling hard with a nervous headache and sleeplessness and anxiety over a sick child; came when every nerve was drawn to its highest tension, and the slightest touch might snap the main cord.  It didn’t snap, however.  He read that long, wise, carefully-written, sympathetic letter through twice, without the outward movement of a muscle, only a flush of red rising to his forehead, and then receding, leaving him very pale.  Then he called his wife.

“Mattie, see here, have you time to read this?  Wait!  Have you nerve for it?  It will not help you.  It is not good news nor encouraging news, and it comes at a hard time; and yet I don’t know.  We can bear any news, can’t we, now that Johnnie is really better?”

With this introduction she read the letter, and the keen, clear gray eye seemed to grow stronger as she read.

“Well,” she said, “it is not such very bad news; nothing, at least, but what you ministers ought to be used to.  We can go.  There is work in the world yet, I suppose.”

“Work in the Lord’s vineyard, Mattie, for us, if he wants us.  If not, why then there is rest.”

Shall I tell you about that breaking up? about how the ties of love, and friendship, and sympathy were severed?  You do not think that the whole church spoke through that letter?  Bless you, no.  Even Mrs. Dr. Matthews cried about it, and said it was a perfect shame, and she didn’t know what the officers meant.  For her part, she thought they would never have such another pastor as Dr. Selmser.  And I may as well tell you, in passing, that she did what she could to cripple the usefulness of the next one by comparing him day and night, in season and out of season, with “dear Dr. Selmser.”  There are worse people in the world than Mrs. Dr. Matthews.

Did he stay all winter and look about him and decide what to do?  You know better than that.  He sent his resignation in the very next Sabbath; and some of those letter-writers were hurt, and thought he had more Christian principle than that; and thought that ministers, of all men, should not be so hasty in their acts.  It showed a bad spirit.