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1852.]
aleam of sunshine cleared away the cloud
from his brow.
“You always counsel well —like a
Christian!” he exclaimed warmly. “I
wish 1 was as good, as meek, as forgiv
ing as you are! But I feel better now.
[ will go directly to Mr. Nolly, and I
won’t be angry, eithei.”
“Bless your kind heart, go. And I’ll
tell you what, Deacon, it is always best
to return good for evil. You must not
go with an empty basket.”
“Oh! after sending him a cheese, and
receiving a stone in return —”
“Good for evil, Deacon- There is a
little of the mutton left. We can do
without it well enough.”
“1 understand you,” exclaimed the
Deacon. “I will carry Mr. Nolley what
there is left, and tell him all; then if his
heart does not melt, 1 shall give him up
as a hardened wretch.”
Glorying in the kindness he had inten
ded to do the Minister, Mr. Bellamy took
the basket on his arm, and went himself
through the woods, to Mr. Nolley’s house.
The Deacon’s face was all sunshine, as
he knocked at the door. The Minister’s
little girl appeared.
“Is your father at home, my dear ?” he
asked.
“He just went to ride with mamma and
the baby,” she replied.” Won’t you
come in and wait? He will be back
i soon.”
Being quite anxious to see the clergy
man, the Deacon entered, and, the girl
having run down to the road, to see if her
parents were coming, he thought he would
carry the basket into the pantry him
self.
It the Deacon had already been consi
derably astonished that morning, his
amazement was now’ increased a thou
sand-fold. For a moment he could not
the evidence of his senses. But
‘''hat he saw was no illusion. Upon one
°t the shelves, before his very eyes, lay
tlle T uar ter of mutton which had been
s tolen from his wood-house !
she Deacon staggered, breathed heavi
ilv > and in great trepidation examined the
u mat more closely 7 . He recognized it by
a peculiar cut which he remembered mak
lnß on the joint.
May the Lord forgive the sin, as 1 for
it! he sighed. “But since the hy-
I u crite has taken by stealth that which
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
should have been given him freely 7 ,1 can
not leave him to enjoy the plunder. Be
sides, he must know that his crime is
discovered.” And the Deacon immedi
ately placed the quarter in his basket,
with the second present he had designed
the minister. As he passed out of the
door, he said to the little girl—
“l will not wait for your father. Tell
him that I have taken the mutton which
I found in his pantry.”
The child stared at the Deacon, and
w r as dumb. The moment his back was
turned, however, she burst into tears.
The Deacon’s heart was touched. “At
all events, the child is blameless,” thought
he, “she desiies a taseof mutton, and she
shall have it.” And returning immedi
ately to the pantry, he took from his bas
ket the small piece of meat, and placed
it on the same shelf where he had found
the stolen quarter. Then patting the
child’s head, and telling her to be a good
girl and not cry, he returned home with
a heavy heart.
“Well! well! well!” he sighed, sink
ing upon a chair. “I am tired of the
world now! I have lived long enough —
nay, a day too long.”
And to his wife’s look of anxiety and
alarm, he replied by lifting the cover of
the basket, and revealing the mutton! It
is impossible to describe her distress.
She even shed tears, poor woman! over
the minister’s sin!
“I never knew before that humanity
was so weak,” said the Deacon, sighing.
“Whom shall we trust now? If a man who
appears so good and kind can fall into
such disgraceful sin, who is safe ?”
“I am afraid to speak of it —it is so
awful,” murmured the excellent Mrs. B.
“Never did anything shock me like this!
But, for charity’s sake, keep this terrible
secret from the world. Think of she
scandal which must fall upon the church,
if the thing is known beyond our own
bosoms. Leave the minister alone with
his conscience, and let us pray that he
may repent!”
The Deacon thought this advice the
best in the world, and resolved to follow
it. The secret was accordingly kept, and
the children were charged to say nothing
about the theft of the mutton.
“I have found it,” said the Deacon.
“Where? they asked.
“No matter —in a place where nobody
would have thought of looking for it,”
was the reply.
The meat was accordingly eaten by
the Deacon’s family ; but, in justice to
Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy, I must state that
not a morsel of it was tasted by them.
They even lost their appetites, merely
from seeing it on the table.
The Deacon, however, made up his
mind to one thing, from which all the re
presentations of his wife could not move
him.
“I will most assuredly leave Mr. Nol
ley alone with his conscience,” he said ;
“but unless his conscience moves him to
repent of his sin, and to confess it with a
contrite heart, my own conscience will
never allow me to sit under his hypocri
tical preaching again.”
Both the Deacon and his wife expected
that the clergyman would hasten to them
to beg their forgiveness, and confess his
fault; but as he did not, they began to
look upon him as a hardened sinner ; and
when the Sabbath came, Mr. Bellamy, in
a solemn tone, told his children that as
he wished to converse with them on reli
gious subjects, they would not go to
church.
Very much astonished, the family gath
ered around him, and listened to his
teachings, which came from a heart filled
with humility, piety and grief.
Such was the surprise of everybody, on
seeing the Deacon’s pew empty on the
Sabbath, that there was a general inquiry
to know if his family was sick; and in
the evening, several of the brethren call
ed at his house. To their anxious ques
tions, Deacon Bellamy replied that it was
not sickness, but other causes which he
could not explain, which had kept his
family from the house of worship.
On the following Sabbath, the Dea
con’s pew was empty again ; and now his
strange conduct began to create severe
remarks. Once more the church mem
bers went to converse with him on the
subject; but as Mr. Nolley did not come,
the Deacon still kept his secret, unhappy
as it made him.
On the third Sabbath —which was com
munion day —the absence of the Deacon’s
family created such a feeling in the church
that the poor man saw 7 the folly of pur
suing his present course of conduct any
longer.
When told that Mr. Nolley had declin-
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