I dare say that the village to which I take my reader is a town of some importance now; but years ago, it was nothing but a cluster of houses snugly nested in a valley, through which a small stream wound itself, sinuously creeping through the meadows and along the base of the hills, in so many picturesque windings, that you really could not tell in what direction it was destined to run at last, north or south.

The village stood at two crossroads, which the river intersected three or four times; besides, a brook from the hills met it just below the corners, demanding a little plank bridge for itself, over which a clump of golden willows bent and sighed pleasantly all the day long. A great, square, barnlike meeting-house, with pews laid out like town lots, and aisles broader than any street in Constantinople, occupied the centre of the village. A range of wagon sheds stood behind it, and a small prairie of greensward lay all around it. There had been some vague attempt at a steeple, which the prejudices of the community had cut short at the belfry, and left without a spire, which gave the edifice a broad, flat look, which would have driven a modern architect mad.

On the top of a broad platform, which rose half way to the ceiling, and was approached by two steep flights of steps, was perched a little sentry box of a pulpit, surmounted by something in the shape of a huge toadstool, which the architects of that day called a sounding board.

In this pulpit, Sunday after Sunday, Mr. Prior, minister of the parish, held forth after the good old fashion, when sermons had more heads than a centipede has legs, and hearers got the value of the minister’s salary in good, sound gospel. Besides, Mr. Prior had other sources of popularity his doctrine was sound, and his sentences offered rare opportunities for short snoozes, which came oftenest between seventhly and eighthly, or thereabout. Not that minister Prior was dull nothing of the kind; he was a very learned man, educated solemnly in a gloomy college, and lifted so completely out of the world during his clerical studies that he never quite found his way back again.

After Mr. Prior had settled himself in the ministry some ten or fifteen years, he married the most accomplished and correct person of all that region, a lady who had kept the district school, to general acceptance, six consecutive summers, had embroidered a cover for the communion table with her own hands, and was only prevented adding a gorgeous book mark and a pair of slippers for the minister, by the fear of what people might say.

I think it was one of his deacons who first put a vague idea of matrimony in the minister’s head. One day the two were standing on a little swell of ground which overlooked the juncture of the mountain rivulet and the river. The clump of golden willows looked beautiful that morning; the yellow boughs and twigs glanced in the sunshine, and the thick leaves were all in a quiver under the kisses of the wind. Have I said that the brook clove one of the greenest meadows you ever set eyes on, before it crossed the road? If not, understand that pleasant fact now, and more, that groups of trees had been left near the brook, all along its banks, and one of its grand curves hedged in the loveliest spot for a house your imagination ever dwelt upon.

“I say, minister,” said the deacon this was some time before our story, remember “I say, what if you get married, and settle down in that ere meadow?”

The minister blushed, and looked, as the deacon afterward said, every which way, before he answered.

“Me marry, Deacon Smith; me!”

“And why not? there’s acres of Scripture for it, and not one word agin it; for how could St. Paul know any thing about it, never having had experience like us married men?”

“Us married men,” how strange the words sounded. “Us married men.” The minister turned the bow of his white cravat more in front and settled himself complacently in his rusty black clothes. “Us married men.”

“We talked about it in vestry meeting t’other night, and the notion seemed to take wonderfully. We all agreed to a T about the person, but our land for a home lot, building the house, and all that, was rather a puzzler.”

“I should think so,” said the minister, taking out a broad silk handkerchief, and wiping his forehead, which was getting crimson again. “Then you agreed on on on the person.”

“Unanimous,” answered the deacon. “Not a dissenting voice.”

“And and ”

“Oh, yes, of course you’ve the best right of anybody to know first. It’s Miss Bruce salt of the earth salt of the earth, minister.”

“You think so?” said the pastor, meekly.

“We know it; trust the vestry for discretion and sound judgment too. Isn’t that a building spot, now.”

“Beautiful,” said the minister, in a confused way; “but the lady, did you ask her?”

“Not exactly; agreed to put it to vote first. Then I promised to inform you of the sense of the meeting, and brother Wells will speak to Miss Bruce. It’s all settled before this time, I dare say.”

The minister drew a deep breath, as if he had just come out of a shower bath, and then, his vision being cleared, took a survey of the meadow lot. The deacon saw how his attention was directed, and went on.

“I agreed to give the lot, the hull meadow, understand. Deacon Styles will find the timber, and the rest’ll be divided up, sort of ginerally, among the congregation. Then the women folks are going to get up quiltings, and spinning frolics, and so on. In about three months, I reckon, all will be ready.”

Again the minister gave a shower bath gasp.

“There is brother Wells coming now, on his black horse, all fixed up in his Sunday clothes,” cried the deacon, triumphantly.

The brother rode up, looking as if he had something portentous on his mind. “Well,” said the deacon, “how did you get along, brother Wells?”

“Tolerably, tolerably; she was a little sot on having the minister come over himself, but when I told her it was the solemn sense of the vestry, of course she gave in.”

“And she no objections,” said the minister.

“Objections!” cried both the men at once, “how could she?”

“Well, I don’t know,” answered the pastor. “That is, I didn’t know but she might think it a little sudden.”

“Sudden! why it has been on our minds a whole year. It isn’t just the thing for our minister to be boarding about like a schoolmaster. A servant of the Lord should set under his own vine and fig tree.”

The minister wiped his face again, and cast a glance toward the meadow, which began to look like home already.

“I stopped at the saw-mill and bespoke the timber,” said brother Wells; “so if you’d just as lief, we’ll go down and pick out the exact spot.”

A smile glowed out on the minister’s face. The deacons saw it, and nodded pleasantly one to the other.

“Minister,” said Wells, leaning down from his horse, “if you should take a notion to go over yonder any time afore the house is built, just consider this ere black horse as your own.”

“Thank you kindly, brother.”

“And,” said Deacon French, “I stopped at the tailor’s coming along; he’s got a firstrate piece of English broadcloth, but he says it’s seven years since you have been measured, minister, and to make a good fit you’ll have to go again.”

“Doubtless doubtless!” answered the minister, ready to cry under all this goodness a house, a wife, and a new suit of clothes all at once! It really was too much of a mercy; he didn’t know how to be thankful enough.

Well, they went down to the meadow, selected a lovely spot for the house, and stopped at the tailor’s on their way home. That very week a little boy came over to Deacon Wells, and asked, in a mysterious way, if he would let the minister have his black horse to ride over the hill.

Deacon Wells smiled grimly, and brought out the horse himself, taking great pains to tighten the saddle girth and shorten the stirrup leathers properly, before he gave the bridle into the boy’s hand.

It wasn’t the last time that black horse was sent for to go over the hill, and the result exhibited itself, in the course of a few months, in a pretty, white house, with a porch and dormer windows, standing in the greenest curve of the brook; a thicket of wild roses, only half shutting out a view of the water; ducks were swimming up and down the little stream, and a flock of hens running riot in the meadow grass. Besides this, a neat, little body, with the quaintest bonnet and neatest dress in the world, came into the meeting-house with the minister, who appeared in a new suit of black, separated from him in the broad aisle in front of the deacon’s seat, and while he mounted the pulpit stairs, she turned into a side pew, and listened to his discourse, from beginning to end, with unbroken interest.

But it is the weakness of vestry-men to vote money which they have not the power to collect. The minister was married, and his house built, but a debt lay on it, which troubled him as only studious men can be troubled by monied claims.

The little wife came to his aid. She was a highly accomplished, well educated woman, who had earned her own living from early girlhood, and was not ashamed or afraid to help her husband in any womanly fashion that presented itself. She had plenty of room, good health, and a clear brain, all sources of usefulness, which she was prompt to put into action. Teaching was her business. If she could obtain a couple of boarding scholars into her own house, at city prices, the debts upon their home would soon be removed.

The dainty little housewife began to talk with her husband about the project one morning just as he was resolving the fifth head of his next sermon, at which time he never heard a syllable addressed to him by any mortal being, but always assented blandly to every thing proposed.

So, under the full conviction that he approved her plan, she wrote to a friend in New York, requesting her to aid in obtaining the desired pupils.

When his sermon was over, the minister received the news of this arrangement with considerable astonishment, but he submitted without protest, as the letter had already gone.