The mill village, as we call it, is a little collection of cottages with one or two houses of a somewhat more pretentious character, which gather round the wheel-barrow factory down the river, a good mile’s walk from the church.  It was a bright afternoon in October.  The woods were in the glory of their radiant death, the air was crisp and keen.  Harry who now ran before, now loitered behind, and now walked sedately by my side, was full of spirits, and there was everything to make the soul feel hope and courage.  And yet I had my misgivings.  When I had told Deacon Goodsole that I was going to call on Mr. Gear he exclaimed at my proposition.

“Why he’s a regular out and outer.  He does not believe in anything—­Church, Bible, Sunday, Christ, God or even his own immortality.”

“What do you know of him?” I asked.

“He was born in New England,” replied the Deacon, “brought up in an orthodox family, taught to say the Westminster Assembly’s Catechism (he can say it better than I can today), and listened twice every Sunday till he was eighteen to good sound orthodox preaching.  Then he left home and the church together; and he has never been to either, to remain, since.”

“Does he ever go to church?” I asked.

The Deacon shrugged his shoulders.  “I asked him that question myself the other day,” said he.  “You never go to church, Mr. Gear, I believe?” said I.

“Oh! yes I do,” he replied.  “I go home every Christmas to spend a week.  And at home I always go to church for the sake of the old folks.  At Wheathedge I always stay away for my own sake.”

“And what do you know of his theology?” said I.

“Theology,” said the Deacon; “he hasn’t any.  His creed is the shortest and simplest one I know of.  I tried to have a religious conversation with him once but I had to give it up.  I could make nothing out of him.  He said he believed in the existence of a God.  But he scouted the idea that we could know anything about Him.  He was rather inclined to think there was a future life; but nobody knew anything about it.  All that we could know was that if we are virtuous in this life we shall be happy in the next—­if there is a next.”

“He does not believe that the gates are wide open there,” said I.

“No,” said the Deacon; “nor ajar either.”

“And what does he say of Christ and Christianity,” said I.

“Of Jesus Christ,” said the Deacon, “that—­well—­probably such a man lived, and was a very pure and holy man, and a very remarkable teacher, certainly for his age a very remarkable teacher.  But he ridicules the idea of the miracles; says he does not believe them any more than he believes in the mythical legends of Greek and Roman literature.  And as to Christianity he believes its a very good sort of thing, better for America than any other religion; but he rather thinks Buddhism is very likely better for India.”