The church committee members sit in the front room of the parsonage, paying me another call. For six months, I have lived in the parsonage while I preached to their small congregation. For six months, the church committee invited me to accept the pulpit in Salem Village.
But what should be a lifetime appointment seems unlikely to last that long. Members of the church are a minority in the village. I’ll have to infuse them with spiritual commitment, and I don’t know if they can make the transition. Nevertheless, I must try.
Deacon Ingersoll clears his throat. He sits beside the hearth, facing me. The position casts him in a silhouette, framing him in low flames. “Have ye had sufficient time to consider our pecuniary offer?”
“I have,” I say, “and ye have my response: a salary of sixty pounds with use of the parsonage is a generous offer, but ye say that only twenty pounds will be paid in coin. The rest will be paid in so-called country cash. This gives me pause.”
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