Imagine, then, if you can, the chagrin and disappointment which was caused when, last Sunday morning, a letter was read from Mr. Uncannon to Mr. James Wheaton, Chairman of the Board of Trustees, declining the call.  Mr. Uncannon had given it his most prayerful consideration.  He was deeply moved by the warm welcome which had been accorded to him.  He had hoped that the Lord would make it plain that it was to be his privilege to cast in his lot with us.  But the Lord had ordered it otherwise.  The Providential indications seemed to him clear that it was his duty to labor in another field.

But he united his prayers with ours that the Great Bishop would soon send us a pastor who should feed us with the bread of life.

Deacon Goodsole says that the Providential indications are a salary of $1,800 and a parsonage; and Mr. Wheaton says if any other young man succeeds in playing us off against a rival parish he is mistaken; that’s all.  Even gentle Jennie is indignant.  “Of all flirtation, ministerial flirtation seems to me to be the worse,” she says; and truth to tell, she never had much patience with any other.

I do not want to judge Mr. Uncannon too harshly.  In fact I am not in a very judicial frame of mind.  But, whatever his intent, his ministerial coquetry has injured the cause of Christ in Wheathedge more than a year of preaching can benefit it in North Bizzy.  Meanwhile, the parsonage, which we hired, lies vacant on our hands, and waits for an occupant.

CHAPTER XX.

We propose.

We are in the valley of humiliation.  Since the church has been rejected, it has an opportunity to understand how a candidate feels when he is rejected.  I am inclined on consideration to recall the last paragraph of the last chapter.  I am inclined to think Mr. Uncannon may prove a “means of grace” to us yet.  He has certainly been a thorn in the side.

On further consideration, I do retract it.  I here emphatically record that first thoughts are not always best thoughts, and that it is my sober second judgment that Mr. Uncannon has done us more good than he has the parish at North Bizzy.  We gave him to them grudgingly.  But it has been a case in which the proverb applies:  It is more blessed to give than to receive.  For Mr. Uncannon’s flirtation has probably given us Maurice Mapleson for a pastor.

Two weeks ago I was coming up from New York on the train.  Deacon Goodsole was in the seat in front of me.  My satchel was my only traveling companion.  And I, according to custom, was enjoying a train nap, when I was aroused by a hand on my shoulder coupled with a hearty “Hallo! you could not be sounder asleep if you were in church and Dr. Argure was in the pulpit.”

It was Mr. Wheaton.

“Good afternoon,” said I.  “Sit down.”  And my satchel exchanged its seat for a place in my lap in order to make room for Mr. Wheaton on the seat beside me.