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“That is my man, sure,” said Dennis. “Children and dogs know what is in the human heart. What may that man’s name be? Tell me that, and you will be doing me a favor, your Honor.”

“His name is Jonathan Trumbull. They call him ‘Brother Jonathan,’ because he helps everybody, hinders nobody, and tries to make broken-up people over new.”

“And where does he live, your Honor?”

“At a place called Lebanon, there are so many cedars there. I do not go to see him, because I did so once, but while he smiled on every one else, he scowled this way on me, as if he thought that I was not all that I ought to be. He is a magistrate, and everybody in the colony knows him. He marries people, and goes to the funerals of people who go to heaven.”

“That is my man. What are the blue-laws?”

“One of the blue-laws reads that married people must live together or go to jail. If a man and woman who were not married were to go to him to settle a dispute, he would say to them—‘Join your right hands.’ When he rises up to speak in church, the earth stands still, and the hour glass stops, and the sun on the dial. But he has no use for me.”