He stopped for breath. His companion was silent. After a moment, he continued:

"You tell her that, Hammond," he went on. "If she really cares for him, it'll be enough. She won't let him ruin his life. And I'll keep quiet till I hear from you. If she's sensible and really decent, then she can give him his clearance papers without his knowing why she did it and everything will be a secret and kept so. Nobody else'll ever know. If she won't do that, then you tell me and I'll have a session with HIM. If THAT'S no good, then out he goes and she with him; and it's ruination for both of 'em, reputations and all. Why am I doing this? I'll tell you. I like him. He isn't orthodox enough to suit me, but I have liked him mighty well. And Annab—Humph! that's neither here nor there. What I'm fighting for is the Trumet Regular church. That's MY church and I'll have no dirty scandal with Come-Outers dragging it down. Now you understand. Will you tell her what I've said?"

The chair creaked. Evidently, Captain Eben was rising slowly to his feet.

"Well?" repeated Elkanah.

"Elkanah Daniels," said Eben slowly, his voice shaking from nervous exhaustion and weakness, but with a fine ring of determination in every word, "Elkanah Daniels, you listen to me. I've heard you through. If your yarn is true, then my heart is broke, and I wish I might have died afore I heard it. But I didn't die and I have heard it. Now listen to me. I love that girl of mine better'n the whole wide world and yet I'd ruther see her dead afore me than married to a Reg'lar minister. Disgrace to HIM! Disgrace to your miser'ble church! What about the disgrace to MINE? And the disgrace to HER? Ruin to your minister! Ruin to my girl here and hereafter is what I'm thinkin' of; that and my people who worship God with me. I'll talk to Grace. I'll talk to her. But not of what'll happen to him or you—or any of your cantin', lip-servin' crew. I'll tell her to choose between him and me. And if she chooses him, I'll send her out of that door. I'll do my duty and read her out of my congregation. And I'll know she's gone to everlastin' hell, and that's worse'n the poorhouse. That's all to-night, Elkanah. Now you better go."

"Humph! Well, I declare! you ARE a bigoted—"

"Stop it! I've kept my hands off you so fur, because I'm the Lord's servant. But I'm fightin' hard to keep down my old salt-water temper. You go! There's the door."

"All right, all right! I don't care what you say, so long as it's said so as to stop her from getting him—and said soon."

"It'll be said to-night. Now go! My people are waitin' at the chapel."

"You're not going to that prayer meeting after THIS?"

"Where else should I go? 'Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden.' And—and"—his voice broke—"He knows that I AM heavy laden. Lord! Lord! do help me, for this is more'n I can bear alone."

The lock turned; the door opened and closed. Grace, clinging to the balusters, heard Captain Hammond cross the room, slowly and feebly. She heard him enter the sitting room. Then she heard nothing more, not another sound, though the minutes dragged on and on, endlessly, eternally, and each with a message, a sentence repeated over and over again in her brain. "If she really cares for him, she won't let him ruin his life."

By and by, pale, but more composed, and with her mind made up, she came down into the hall. Drawing a long breath, she turned into the sitting room to face her uncle. By the light shining through the dining-room door she saw him on his knees by the haircloth sofa. She spoke his name. He did not answer nor look up. Alarmed, she touched him on the shoulder. At her touch his arm slid from the couch and he fell gently over upon his side on the carpet.

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH CAPTAIN EBEN MAKES PORT

Half past eight. In the vestry of the Regular church John Ellery was conducting his prayer meeting. The attendance was as large as usual. Three seats, however, were vacant, and along the settees people were wondering where Captain Elkanah Daniels and his daughter might be. They had not missed a service for many a day. And where was Keziah Coffin?

At the Come-Outer chapel the testifying and singing were in full blast. But Ezekiel Bassett was leading, for Captain Eben Hammond had not made his appearance. Neither had Grace Van Horne, for that matter, but Captain Eben's absence was the most astonishing.

"Somethin's the matter," whispered Josiah Badger to his right-hand neighbor. "Somethin's wrong d-d-d-down to the tavern, sartin' sure. I'm goin' down there just soon's meetin's over and f-f-f-find out. Eben wouldn't no more miss leadin' his meetin' from choice than I'd go without a meal's v-v-vi-vittles. Somethin's happened and I'm goin' to know what 'tis. You'll go along with me, won't ye, Lot?"

The answer was an affirmative. In fact, almost every worshiper in that chapel had determined to visit the Hammond tavern as soon as the service was at an end.

In the Regular parsonage Keziah sat alone by the sitting-room table. Prayer meeting and supper she had forgotten entirely. The minister had not come home for his evening meal, and food was furthest from the housekeeper's thoughts. What should she do? What ought she to do? How could she avert the disaster so certain to overwhelm those two young people the moment their secret became known?

It was in vain that she tried to encourage herself with the hope that Kyan had exaggerated—that the meetings in the grove had not been as frequent as he said they were, or that they had been merely casual. She knew better. She had seen the pair together and the look in John Ellery's eyes. No, the mischief was done, they loved each other; or, at least, he loved her. There was the great trouble.

Keziah, in spite of her worldly common sense, was an idealist at heart. Love matches she believed in thoroughly. If the man had not been a Regular minister, or if he had been a minister in any other town than narrow, gossiping, squabbling Trumet, where families were divided on "religious" grounds, neighbors did not speak because their creeds were different, and even after death were buried in cemeteries three miles apart; if the girl had been other than the ward of bigoted old Eben Hammond—then, though they were poor as poverty itself, Keziah would have joined their hands and rejoiced. Even as it was, she was strongly tempted to do it. Her sense of right and her every inclination urged her toward that course. "Face the world together and fight it out," that was the advice she would like to give them. But no, the battle was too uneven. The odds were too great. They must not think of marriage, for the present, and they must cease to meet. Perhaps some day—she tried to comfort herself with the thought—perhaps some day, years afterwards and under different circumstances, they might.

—With Ellery she felt certain she could accomplish nothing by argument or persuasion. She knew him well enough by this time to realize that, if his mind was made up, all Trumet and all creation could not change it. He would keep on his course, and, if wrecked, would go down with colors set and helm lashed. But Grace, perhaps she did not fully realize the situation. She might be made to see, to listen to reason. And, perhaps, it was possible—perhaps, on her part, matters were not as serious. The minister had not acted like a triumphant lover, assured of success; he had seemed, now that she thought of it, more like a pleader, a supplicant. Perhaps, if she could see Grace and talk plainly with the girl, it might not be too late. She determined to try that very night.

She rose and again donned her bonnet and shawl. She was about to blow out the lamp when she heard rapid footsteps, the sound of some one running along the sidewalk in front of the house. As she listened, the footsteps sounded on the path. Whoever the runner was he was coming to the parsonage. She stepped to the door and opened it.

The runner was a boy, Maria Higgins's boy Isaac, whose widowed mother lived down by the shore. He did the chores at the Hammond tavern. His freckled face was dripping with perspiration and he puffed and blew like a stranded whale.

"What's the matter, Ike?" demanded Keziah. "What is it?"

"Have ye—have ye," panted Ike, "have ye seen the doctor anywheres, Mis Coffin?"

"Who? Dr. Parker? Have I seen—what in the world are you comin' HERE after the doctor for?"

"'Cause—'cause I didn't know where else to come. I been to his house and he ain't to home. Nobody ain't to home. His wife, Mis Parker, she's gone up to Boston yes'day on the coach, and—and it's all dark and the house door's open and the shay's gone, so—"

"Who's sick? Who wants him?"

"And—and—all the rest of the houses round here was shut up 'cause everybody's to meetin'. I peeked in at the meetin' house and he ain't there, and I see your light and—"

"Who's sick? Tell me that, won't you?"

"Cap'n Eben. He's awful sick. I cal'late he's goin' to die, and Gracie, she—"

"Cap'n Eben? Eben Hammond! Dyin'? What are you talkin' about?"

"Huh! huh!" puffed the messenger impatiently. "Didn't I tell ye? Cap'n Eben's adyin'. I seen him. All white and still and—and awful. And Gracie, she's all alone and—"

"Alone? Where's Nat?"

"She don't know. He ain't to home. But I got to find Dr. Parker."

"Hold on! Stop! I'll tell you where the doctor is most likely. Up to Mrs. Prince's. She's been poorly and he's prob'ly been called there. Run! run fast as ever you can and get him and I'll go to Grace this minute. The poor thing! Have you told anybody else?"

"No, no! ain't seen nobody but you to tell. They was prayin' over to meetin', and the fellers that waits outside to keep comp'ny with the girls ain't got there yet. And I never met nobody. And 'twas so blasted dark I fell down four times and tore my best pants and—"

"S-sh-sh! Listen to me! Don't tell anybody. Not a soul but the doctor. Half this town'll be runnin' to find out if you do, and that poor girl must be distracted already. I'll go to her. You get Dr. Parker and tell him to hurry."

"I'll tell him; don't you fret."

He was gone, running harder than ever. A moment later Keziah followed him, running also.

It was a misty, black night, and Trumet sidewalks were uneven and hard to navigate. But she stumbled on, up the main road to the Corners, down the "Turn-off," past the chapel of the Come-Outers, from the open window of which sounded the drone of a high, nasal voice. Josiah Badger was "testifying," and Keziah caught a fragment of the testimony as she hurried by.

"I says to 'em, says I, I says to 'em, 'I don't care about your smart mum-mum-minister and what fine sermons he preaches. Let him BE smart,' I says. Says I, 'Smartness won't g-g-g-git ye into heaven.' ("Amen!") 'No, sirree! it takes more'n that. I've seen smart folks afore and they got c-c-cuk-catched up with sooner or later. Pride goes ahead of a tumble, I've heard tell, and—"

This was all that Keziah heard of Mr. Badger's testimony, for, as she ran on, a rattle of wheels and the thud of hoofs came from behind her. Then a rocking chaise, drawn by a galloping horse, shot by. Dr. Parker's carriage, she was sure. The Higgins boy must have met the doctor and delivered his message.

The horse and chaise were standing by the front gate of the tavern as she pantingly drew near it. The side door of the house was ajar and she opened it softly and entered. The dining room was empty. There was a light on the sitting-room table and low voices came from the little bedroom adjoining. Then, from the bedroom, emerged Dr. Parker and Grace Van Horne. The girl was white and there were dark circles under her eyes. The doctor was very grave.

Keziah stepped forward and held out both hands. Grace looked, recognized her, and with a cry ran toward her. Keziah took her in her arms and soothed her as if she were a child.

"There! there! deary," she said, stroking her hair. "There! there! deary, don't take it so hard. Poor thing! you're worn out. If I'd only known sooner."

"O Aunt Keziah!" sobbed the girl. "I'm so glad you've come. It was so good of you."

"Good! Land of mercy! If I hadn't come, I'd have been worse than the beasts that perish. Don't cry, don't. How is he now? Some better?"

She looked at the doctor as she asked it. He shook his head emphatically.

"Well, well, dear," went on Mrs. Coffin hurriedly. "He will be pretty soon, we'll hope. You mustn't give up the ship, you know. Now you go and lay down somewheres and I'll get my things off and see what there is to do. Some good strong tea might be good for all hands, I guess likely. Where's Hannah Poundberry?"

"She's gone to her cousin's to stay all night. I suppose I ought to send for her, but I—"

"No, no, you hadn't. Might's well send for a poll parrot, the critter would be just as much good and talk less. I'll look out for things, me and the doctor. Where's—where's Nat?"

"He came in just after I sent the boy for the doctor. He's in there with—with him," indicating the bedroom. "Poor Nat!"

Keziah looked longingly toward the door.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Poor fellow, it's an awful shock to him. He and his father are—But there! you lay down on that lounge."

"I can't lie down. I can't do anything but think. Oh, what a dreadful day this has been! And I thought it was going to be such a happy one!"

"Yes, yes, deary, I know."

Grace raised her head.

"You know?" she repeated, looking up into the housekeeper's face.

"I mean I know it's been a dreadful day," explained Keziah quickly. "Yes, indeed it has," with a sigh. "But there! our moanin' over it don't cheer it up any. Will you lay down? No? Well, then, SET down, there's a good girl."

Grace, protesting that she couldn't sit down, she couldn't leave uncle, and there were so many things to do, was at last persuaded by Keziah and the doctor to rest for a few moments in the big rocker. Then Mrs. Coffin went into the kitchen to prepare the tea. As she went, she beckoned to Dr. Parker, who joined her a moment later.

"Well, doctor?" she asked anxiously.

The stout, gray-haired old physician—he had practiced in Trumet for nearly thirty years—shook his head.

"Not a single chance," he whispered. "He may possibly live till morning, but I doubt if he lasts an hour. It's his heart. I've expected it at any time. Ever since he had that shock, I've been at him to take things easy; but you might as well talk to a graven image. That Come-Outer foolishness is what really killed him, though just what brought on this attack I can't make out. Grace says she found him lying on the floor by the sofa. He was unconscious then. I'm rather worried about her. She was very near to fainting when I got here."

"No wonder. All alone in this ark of a house and nobody to help or to send. Lucky she found that Ike Higgins. Say, I wonder if the young one's around here now? If he is, he must stand at the gate and scare off Come-Outers. The whole chapel, mates, crew, and cabin boy, 'll be down here soon's meetin's over to see what kept Eben. And they mustn't get in."

"I should say not. I'll hunt up Ike. If a Come-Outer gets into this house to-night I'll eat him, that's all."

"Some of 'em would give you dyspepsy, I guess. Yes, Grace, I'll be there in a jiffy."

The doctor left the house to find young Higgins and post him at the gate. The boy, who had been listening under the window, was proud of his new responsibility.

"I'll fix 'em, doctor," he declared. "I only hope old Zeke Bassett comes. He lammed me with a horsewhip t'other day, 'cause I was ridin' behind his ox cart. If he tried to git by me, I'll bounce a rock off'n his Sunday hat."

"Doctor," whispered Keziah from the kitchen window. "Doctor, come quick. Nat wants you."

Captain Nat was standing at the door of the bedroom. His face was drawn and he had seemingly grown years older since noon.

"He's come to himself, doc," he whispered. "He don't remember how it happened or anything. And he wants us all. Why! why, Keziah! are you here?"

"Yes, Nat. I've been here a little while."

He looked at her steadily and his eyes brightened just a trifle.

"Did you come to see me?" he asked. "Was it about what I said this—"

"No, no, Nat; no. I heard the news and that Grace was alone; so I come right down."

He nodded wearily.

"You can come in, too," he said. "I know dad likes you and I guess—Wait a minute; I'll ask him." He stepped back into the bedroom. "Yes," he nodded, returning, "you come, too. He wants you."

The little room, Captain Eben's own, was more like a skipper's cabin than a chamber on land. A narrow, single bed, a plain washstand, a battered, painted bureau and a single chair—these made up the list of furniture. Two pictures, both of schooners under full sail, hung on the walls. Beside them hung a ship's barometer, a sextant, and a clock that struck the "bells," instead of the hours as the landsman understands them. In the corner stood the captain's big boots and his oilskins hung above them. His Sunday cane was there also. And on the bureau was a worn, heavy Bible.

Dr. Parker brushed by the others and bent over the bed.

"Well, cap'n," he said cheerily, "how's she headed? How are you feeling now?"

The old face on the pillow smiled feebly.

"She's headed for home, I guess, doc," said Captain Eben. "Bound for home, and the harbor light broad abeam, I cal'late."

"Oh, no! you'll make a good many voyages yet."

"Not in this hulk, I won't, doctor. I hope I'll have a new command pretty soon. I'm trustin' in my owners and I guess they'll do the fair thing by me. Halloo, Gracie, girl! Well, your old uncle's on his beam ends, ain't he?"

Grace glanced fearfully at his face. When he spoke her name she shrank back, as if she feared what he might say. But he only smiled as, with the tears streaming down her face, she bent over and kissed him.

"There! there!" he protested. "You mustn't cry. What are you cryin' about me for? We know, you and me, who's been lookin' out for us and keepin' us on the course all these years. We ain't got anything to cry for. You just keep on bein' a 'good girl, Gracie, and goin' to the right church and—I s'pose Ezekiel'll lead in meetin' now," he added. "I do wish he was a stronger man."

The doctor, whose fingers had been upon the old man's wrist, looked up at Nat significantly.

"There, dad," said the latter, "don't you worry about Zeke Bassett, nor anything else. You just lay in dry dock and let Parker here overhaul your runnin' riggin' and get you fit for sea. That's what you've got to do."

"I'm fit and ready for the sea I'm goin' to sail," was the answer. His eyes wandered from his son to Mrs. Coffin. For an instant he seemed puzzled. Then he said:

"'Evenin', Keziah. I don't know why you're here, but—"

"I heard that Grace was alone and that you was sick, Eben. So I come right down, to help if I could."

"Thank ye. You're a good-hearted woman, Keziah, even though you ain't seen the true light yet. And you're housekeeper for that hired priest—a—a—" He paused, and a troubled look came over his face.

"What is it, dad?" asked Nat.

"I—I—Where's Gracie? She's here, ain't she?"

"Yes, uncle, I'm here. Here I am," said the girl. His fingers groped for her hand and seized it.

"Yes, yes, you're here," murmured Captain Eben. "I—I—for a minute or so, I—I had an awful dream about you, Gracie. I dreamed—Never mind. Doc, answer me this now, true and honest, man to man: Can you keep me here for just a little spell longer? Can you? Try! Ten minutes, say. Can you?"

"Of course I can. Cap'n Hammond, what are you—"

"I know. That's all right. But I ain't a young one to be petted and lied to. I'm a man. I've sailed ships. I've been on blue water. I'm goin' to make port pretty soon, and I know it, but I want to get my decks clear fust, if I can. Gracie, stand still. Nat, run alongside where I can see you plainer. Keziah, you and the doctor stay where you be. I want you to witness this."

"Cap'n," protested Dr. Parker, "if I were you I wouldn't—"

"Belay! Silence there, for'ard! Nat, you're my boy, ain't you? You set some store by the old man, hey?"

"I—I guess I do, dad."

"Yes, I guess you do, too. You've been a pretty good boy; stubborn and pig-headed sometimes, but, take you by and large, pretty good. And Gracie, you've been a mighty good girl. Never done nothin' I wouldn't like, nothin' mean nor underhand nor—"

"Hush, uncle! Hush! Please hush!"

"Well, you ain't; so why should I hush? In this—this dream I had, seems 'sif you—seems as if a man come to me and said that you was—It WAS a dream, wa'n't it?"

He tried to rise. Nat and the doctor started forward. Grace shrank back.

"Of course it was, cap'n," said the doctor briskly. "Now you mustn't fret yourself in this way. Just lie still and—"

"Belay, I tell you. Yes, I guess 'twas a dream. It had to be, but 'twas so sort of real that I—How long have I been this way?"

"Oh, a little while! Now just—"

"Hush! Don't pull your hand away, Gracie. Nat, give me yours. That's it. Now I put them two hands together. See, doctor? See, Keziah?"

"He's wandering. We must stop this," muttered Parker. Mrs. Coffin, who began to comprehend what was coming, looked fearfully at Nat and the girl.

"No, I ain't wanderin', neither," declared the old Come-Outer fretfully. "I'm sane as ever I was and if you try to stop me I'll—Gracie, your Uncle Eben's v'yage is 'most over. He's almost to his moorin's and they're waitin' for him on the pier. I—I won't be long now. Just a little while, Lord! Give me just a little while to get my house in order. Gracie, I don't want to go till I know you'll be looked out for. I've spoke to Nat about this, but I ain't said much to you. Seems if I hadn't, anyhow; I ain't real sartin; my head's all full of bells ringin' and—and things."

"Don't, uncle, don't!" pleaded Grace. "Don't worry about me. Think of yourself, please."

"S-sh-sh! Don't put me off. Just listen. I want you to marry my boy, after I'm gone. I want you to say you will—say it now, so's I can hear it. Will you, Gracie?"

Grace would have withdrawn her hand, but he would not let her. He clung to it and to that of his son with all his failing strength.

"Will you, Gracie?" he begged. "It's the last thing I'm goin' to ask of you. I've tried to be sort of good to you, in my way, and—"

"Don't, don't!" she sobbed. "Let me think a minute, uncle, dear. Oh, do let me think!"

"I ain't got time, Gracie. You'll have to say it now, or else—All right, then, think; but think quick."

Grace was thinking. "If she really cares for him, she won't let him ruin his life." That was what Captain Elkanah had said. And here was a way to save him from ruin.

"Won't you say it for me, Gracie?" pleaded Captain Eben. She hesitated no longer.

"Yes, uncle," she answered through tears, "if Nat wants me he can have me."

Keziah clasped her hands. Captain Eben's face lit up with a great joy.

"Thank the Almighty!" he exclaimed. "Lord, I do thank you. Nat, boy, you're consider'ble older than she is and you'll have to plan for her. You be a good husband to her all her days, won't ye? Why, what are you waitin' for? Why don't you answer me?"

Nat groaned aloud.

"A minute, dad," he stammered. "Just give me a minute, for Heaven sakes! Keziah—"

"Keziah!" repeated Eben. "Keziah? What are you talkin' to HER for? She knows there couldn't be no better match in the world. You do know it, don't ye, Keziah?"

"Yes," said Keziah slowly. "I guess—I guess you're right, Eben."

"Keziah Coffin," cried Nat Hammond, "do you tell me to marry Grace?"

"Yes, Nat, I—I think your father's right."

"Then—then—what difference does—All right, dad. Just as Grace says."

"Thank God!" cried Captain Eben. "Doctor, you and Mrs. Coffin are witnesses to this. There! now my decks are clear and I'd better get ready to land. Gracie, girl, the Good Book's over there on the bureau. Read me a chapter, won't you?"

An hour later Keziah sat alone in the dining room. She had stolen away when the reading began. Dr. Parker, walking very softly, came to her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

"He's gone," he said simply.

CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH KEZIAH BREAKS THE NEWS

It was nearly five o'clock, gray dawn of what was to be a clear, beautiful summer morning, when Keziah softly lifted the latch and entered the parsonage. All night she had been busy at the Hammond tavern. Busy with the doctor and the undertaker, who had been called from his bed by young Higgins; busy with Grace, soothing her, comforting her as best she could, and petting her as a mother might pet a stricken child. The poor girl was on the verge of prostration, and from hysterical spasms of sobs and weeping passed to stretches of silent, dry-eyed agony which were harder to witness and much more to be feared.

"It is all my fault," she repeated over and over again. "All my fault! I killed him! I killed him, Aunt Keziah! What shall I do? Oh, why couldn't I have died instead? It would have been so much better, better for everybody."

"Ss-sh! ss-sh! deary," murmured the older woman. "Don't talk so; you mustn't talk so. Your uncle was ready to go. He's been ready for ever so long, and those of us who knew how feeble he was expected it any time. 'Twa'n't your fault at all and he'd say so if he was here now."

"No, he wouldn't. He'd say just as I do, that I was to blame. You don't know, Aunt Keziah. Nobody knows but me."

"Maybe I do, Gracie, dear; maybe I do. Maybe I understand better'n you think I do. And it's all been for the best. You'll think so, too, one of these days. It seems hard now; it is awful hard, you poor thing, but it's all for the best, I'm sure. Best for everyone. It's a mercy he went sudden and rational, same as he did. The doctor says that, if he hadn't, he'd have been helpless and bedridden and, maybe, out of his head for another year. He couldn't have lived longer'n that, at the most."

"But you DON'T know, Aunt Keziah! You don't know what I—I AM to blame. I'll never forgive myself. And I'll never be happy again."

"Yes, you will. You'll come, some day, to think it was best and right, for you and—and for others. I know you think you'll never get over it, but you will. Somehow or other you will, same as the rest of us have had to do. The Lord tries us mighty hard sometimes, but He gives us the strength to bear it. There! there! don't, deary, don't."

Dr. Parker was very anxious.

"She must rest," he told Mrs. Coffin. "She must, or her brain will give way. I'm going to give her something to make her sleep and you must get her to take it."

So Keziah tried and, at last, Grace did take the drug. In a little while she was sleeping, uneasily and with moans and sobbings, but sleeping, nevertheless.

"Now it's your turn, Keziah," said the doctor. "You go home now and rest, yourself. We don't need you any more just now."

"Where's—where's Cap'n Nat?" asked Keziah.

"He's in there with his father. He bears it well, although he is mighty cut up. Poor chap, he seems to feel that he is to blame, somehow. Says Cap'n Eben and he had disagreed about something or other and he fears that hastened the old man's death. Nonsense, of course. It was bound to come and I told him so. 'Twas those blasted Come-Outers who really did it, although I shan't say so to anyone but you. I'm glad Nat and the girl have agreed to cruise together. It's a mighty good arrangement. She couldn't have a better man to look out for her and he couldn't have a better wife. I suppose I'm at liberty to tell people of the engagement, hey?"

"Yes. Yes, I don't see any reason why not. Yes—I guess likely you'd better tell 'em."

"All right. Now you go home. You've had a hard night, like the rest of us."

How hard he had no idea. And Keziah, as she wearily entered the parsonage, realized that the morning would be perhaps the hardest of all. For upon her rested the responsibility of seeing that the minister's secret was kept. And she, and no other, must break the news to him.

The dining room was dark and gloomy. She lighted the lamp. Then she heard a door open and Ellery's voice, as he called down the stairs.

"Who is it?" he demanded. "Mrs. Coffin?"

She was startled. "Yes," she said softly, after a moment. "Yes, Mr. Ellery, it's me. What are you doin' awake at such an hour's this?"

"Yes, I'm awake. I couldn't sleep well to-night, somehow. Too much to think of, I imagine. But where have you been? Why weren't you at meeting? And where—Why, it's almost morning!"

She did not answer at once. The temptation was to say nothing now, to put off the trying scene as long as possible.

"It's morning," repeated the minister. "Are you sick? Has anything happened?"

"Yes," she answered slowly, "somethin' has happened. Are you dressed? Could you come down?"

He replied that he would be down in a moment. When he came he found her standing by the table waiting for him. The look of her face in the lamplight shocked him.

"Why, Mrs. Coffin!" he exclaimed. "What IS it? You look as if you had been through some dreadful experience."

"Maybe I have," she replied. "Maybe I have. Experiences like that come to us all in this life, to old folks and young, and we have to bear 'em like men and women. That's the test we're put to, Mr. Ellery, and the way we come through the fire proves the stuff we're made of. Sorrows and disappointments and heartbreaks and sicknesses and death—"

She paused on the word. He interrupted her.

"Death?" he repeated. "Death? Is some one dead, some one I know? Mrs. Coffin, what is it you are trying to tell me?"

Her heart went out to him. She held out both her hands.

"You poor boy," she cried, "I'm trying to tell you one of the hardest things a body can tell. Yes, some one is dead, but that ain't all. Eben Hammond, poor soul, is out of his troubles and gone."

"Eben Hammond! Captain Eben? Dead! Why, why—"

"Yes, Eben's gone. He was took down sudden and died about ten o'clock last night. I was there and—"

"Captain Eben dead! Why, he was as well as—as—She said—Oh, I must go! I must go at once!"

He was on his way to the door, but she held it shut.

"No," she said gravely, "you mustn't go. You mustn't go, Mr. Ellery. That's the one thing you mustn't do."

"You don't understand. By and by I can tell you why I must be there, but now—"

"I do understand. I understand it all. Lord help us! if I'd only understood sooner, how much of this might have been spared. Why DIDN'T you tell me?"

"Mrs. Coffin—"

"John—you won't mind my callin' you John. I'm old enough, pretty nigh, to be your mother, and I've come to feel almost as if I was. John, you've got to stay here with me. You can't go to that house. You can't go to her."

"Mrs. Coffin, what are you saying? Do you know—Have you—"

"Yes, I know all about it. I know about the meetin's in the pines and all. Oh, why didn't you trust me and tell me? If you had, all would have been SO much better!"

He looked at her in utter amazement. The blood rushed to his face.

"You know THAT?" he whispered.

"Yes, I know."

"Did she tell—"

"No, nobody told. That is, only a little. I got a hint and I suspicioned somethin' afore. The rest I saw with my own eyes."

He was now white, but his jaw shot forward and his teeth closed.

"If you do know," he said, "you must realize that my place is with her. Now, when she is in trouble—"

"Would you want to make that trouble greater? More than she could bear?"

"I think I might help her to bear it. Mrs. Coffin, you have been my truest friend, but one, in Trumet. You HAVE been like a mother to me. But I have thought this out to the end and I shall go through with it. It is my affair—and hers. If my own mother were alive and spoke as you do, I should still go through with it. It is right, it is my life. I'm not ashamed of anything I've done. I'm proud. I'm proud of her. And humble only when I think how unworthy I am to be her husband. I suppose you are fearful of what my congregation will say. Well, I've thought of that, too, and thought it through. Whatever they say and whatever they do will make no difference. Do you suppose I will let THEM keep me from her? Please open that door."

He was very tragic and handsome—and young, as he stood there. The tears overflowed the housekeeper's eyes as she looked at him. If her own love story had not been broken off at its beginning, if she had not thrown her life away, she might have had a son like that. She would have given all that the years had in store for her, given it gladly, to have been able to open the door and bid him go. But she was firm.

"It ain't the congregation, John," she said. "Nor Trumet, nor your ministry. That means more'n you think it does, now; but it ain't that. You mustn't go to her because—well, because she don't want you to."

"Doesn't want me? I know better." He laughed in supreme scorn.

"She doesn't want you, John. She wouldn't see you if you went. She would send you away again, sure, sartin sure. She would. And if you didn't go when she sent you, you wouldn't be the man I hope you are. John, you mustn't see Grace again. She ain't yours. She belongs to some one else."

"Some one else!" He repeated the words in a whisper. "Some one ELSE? Why, Mrs. Coffin, you must be crazy! If you expect me to—"

"Hush! hush! I ain't crazy, though there's times when I wonder I ain't. John, you and Grace have known each other for a few months, that's all. You've been attracted to her because she was pretty and educated and—and sweet; and she's liked you because you were about the only young person who could understand her and—and all that. And so you've been meetin' and have come to believe—you have, anyway—that 'twas somethin' more than likin'. But you neither of you have stopped to think that a marriage between you two was as impossible as anything could be. And, besides, there's another man. A man she's known all her life and loved and respected—"

"Stop, Mrs. Coffin! stop this wicked nonsense. I won't hear it."

"John, Grace Van Horne is goin' to marry Cap'n Nat Hammond. There! that's the livin' truth."

In his absolute confidence and faith he had again started for the door. Now he wheeled and stared at her. She nodded solemnly.

"It's the truth," she repeated. "She and Nat are promised to each other. Cap'n Eben, on his deathbed, asked Dr. Parker and me to be witnesses to the engagement. Now you see why you mustn't go nigh her again."

He did not answer. Instead, he stood silently staring. She stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Set down, John," she said. "Set down and let me tell you about it. Yes, yes, you must. If I tell you, you'll understand better. There! there! don't you interrupt me yet and don't you look that way. Do set down."

She led him over to the rocking-chair and gently forced him into it. He obeyed, although with no apparent realization of what he was doing. Still with her hand on his shoulder she went on speaking. She told him of her visit to the Hammond tavern, saying nothing of Mr. Pepper's call nor of her own experience in the grove. She told of Captain Eben's seizure, of what the doctor said, and of the old Come-Outer's return to consciousness. Then she described the scene in the sick room and how Nat and Grace had plighted troth. He listened, at first stunned and stolid, then with growing impatience.

"So you see," she said. "It's settled; they're engaged, and Dr. Parker will tell everybody of the engagement this very mornin'. It wa'n't any great surprise to me. Those two have been brought up together; 'twas the natural thing that was almost bound to happen. Eben's heart was set on it for years. And she'll have a good husband, John, that I know. And she'll do her best to make him happy. He's a good man and—"

The minister sprang to his feet.

"A good man!" he cried furiously. "A good man! One who will make use of a dying father to drive a girl into—Stand aside, Mrs. Coffin!"

"John, you mustn't speak that way of Nat Hammond. He ain't the kind to drive a girl against her will. And Grace is not one to be driven."

"Are you blind? Can't you see? Why, only yesterday, she—Do you think I shall permit such a wicked crime as that to—"

"Ss-sh! No, it ain't wicked, it's right. Right and best for everybody, for her especial. Yesterday she might have forgot for a minute. But think, just think what would have happened if she cared for you."

"But she does! I know she does. Mrs. Coffin, stand away from that door."

"No, John; if you go out of that door now, to go to her, you'll have to go by main strength. You shan't wreck yourself and that girl if I can help it. Be a man."

The pair looked at each other. Keziah was determined, but so, evidently, was he. She realized, with a sinking heart, that her words had made absolutely no impression. He did not attempt to pass, but he slowly shook his head.

"Mrs. Coffin," he said, "perhaps you believe you're doing right. I hope—yes, I'll give you credit for that belief. But I KNOW I am right and I shall go to her. Such a—a BARGAIN as that you have just told me of is no more to be regarded than—"

"John, I beg you—"

"NO."

"Then go. Go this minute and break her heart and ruin her life and spoil her good name in this village where she's lived since she was eight years old. Go! be selfish. I suppose that's part of a man's make-up. Go! Never mind her. Go!"

"I do 'mind' her, as you call it. I AM thinking of her."

"No, you're not. It's yourself."

"If it was myself—and God knows it is the only happiness on earth for me—if it was only myself, and I really thought she wished me to stay away, I'd stay, I'd stay, though I'd pray to die before this hour was over."

"I know, I know. I've prayed to die myself afore now, but I'm here yet; and so will you be. We can't die so easy."

"But I know—"

"Do you suppose SHE would come to YOU if she knew it would be your ruin?"

He hesitated. The last time they met, ages before—no, only the previous afternoon—she had told him it was his happiness and his future only that she thought of. He choked and drew his hand across his eyes.

"Mrs. Coffin," he said, "you tell me it will be her ruin. YOU tell me so. You SAY she doesn't want me. I tell you that the only thing that will keep me from her is hearing that from her own lips. When she tells me to leave her I will, and not before."

"She'll tell you, John; she'll tell you. I know you must despise me, pretty nigh. I cal'late you think I'm a worldly old woman, carin' nothin' for your feelin's. Maybe I've talked pretty hard in the last few minutes, but I haven't meant to be hard. To be honest, I didn't think you'd listen to me. I expected you'd insist on seein' her yourself. Well, then, go and see her, if you must, though what will come of it can only be more trouble, for you run the risk of folks knowin' it and beginnin' to wonder. And I know Grace. She's made up her mind and won't change it. But I do ask you this: I ask you not to go now. Wait a little while, do. I left her asleep, worn out by what she's been through and under the effects of the doctor's sleepin' medicine. He said she must rest or he was afraid her brain would give out. For her sake, then, wait a little. Then, if you don't hear from her, maybe I can arrange a meetin' place where you can see her without anyone's knowin' it. I'll try. But do wait a little while, for her sake, won't you?"

At last he was listening and hesitating.

"Won't you?" begged Keziah.

"Yes," he answered slowly. "I'll wait. I'll wait until noon, somehow, if I can. I'll try. But not a minute later. Not one. You don't know what you're asking, Mrs. Coffin."

"Yes, I do. I know well. And I thank you for her sake."

But he did not have to wait until noon. At six o'clock, through the dew-soaked grass of the yard, came the Higgins boy. For the first time in his short life he had been awake all night and he moved slowly.

The housekeeper opened the door. Ike held up an envelope, clutched in a grimy hand.

"It's for you, Mrs. Keziah," he said. "Gracie, she sent it. There ain't no answer."

Keziah took the letter. "How is she? And how's Nat?" she asked.

"They're doin' pretty well, so ma says. Ma's there now and they've sent for Hannah Poundberry. Gee!" he added, yawning, "I ain't slept a wink. Been on the jump, now I tell ye. Didn't none of them Come-Outers git in, not one. I sent 'em on the home tack abilin'. You ought to hear me give old Zeke Bassett Hail Columby! Gosh! I was just ahopin' HE'D come."

Mrs. Coffin closed the door and tore open the envelope. Within was another addressed, in Grace's handwriting, to Mr. Ellery. The housekeeper entered the study, handed it to him and turned away.

The minister, who had been pacing the floor, seized the note eagerly. It was written in pencil and by a hand that had trembled much. Yet there was no indecision in the written words.

"Dear John," wrote Grace. "I presume Aunt Keziah has told you of uncle's death and of my promise to Nat. It is true. I am going to marry him. I am sure this is right and for the best. Our friendship was a mistake and you must not see me again. Please don't try.

"GRACE VAN HORNE."

Beneath was another paragraph.

"Don't worry about me. I shall be happy, I am sure. And I shall hope that you may be. I shall pray for that."

The note fell to the floor with a rustle that sounded loud in the stillness. Then Keziah heard the minister's step. She turned. He was moving slowly across the room.

"John," she cried anxiously, "you poor boy!"

He answered without looking back.

"I'm—going—up—to—my—room," he said, a pause between each word. "I want to be alone awhile, Mrs. Coffin."

Wearily Keziah set about preparing breakfast. Not that she expected the meal would be eaten, but it gave her something to do and occupied her mind. The sun had risen and the light streamed in at the parsonage windows. The breeze blew fresh and cool from the ocean. It was a magnificent morning.

She called to him that breakfast was ready, but he did not answer. She could eat nothing herself, and, when the table was cleared, prepared to do the week's washing, for Monday is always washday in Trumet. Noon came, dinner time, but still he did not come down. At last Keziah could stand it no longer. She determined to go to him. She climbed the steep stairs and rapped on the door of his room.

"Yes?" she heard him say.

"It's me," was the reply. "Mr. Ellery, can I come in? I know you want to be alone, but I don't think you'd ought to be, too much. I'd like to talk with you a few minutes; may I?"

A moment passed before he told her to enter. He was sitting in a chair by the window, dressed just as he had been when she returned from the tavern. She looked sharply at his face as it was turned toward her. His eyes were dry and in them was an expression so hopeless and dreary that the tears started to her own.

"John," she said, "I couldn't bear to think of your facin' it alone up here. I just had to come."

He smiled, and the smile was as hopeless as the look in his eyes.

"Face it?" he repeated. "Well, Mrs. Coffin, I must face it, I suppose. I've been facing it ever since—since I knew. And I find it no easier."

"John, what are you goin' to do?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Go away somewhere, first of all, I guess. Go somewhere and—and try to live it down. I can't, of course, but I must try."

"Go away? Leave Trumet and your church and your congregation?"

"Did you suppose I could stay here?"

"I hoped you would."

"And see the same people and the same places? And do the same things? See—see HER! Did you"—he moved impatiently—"did you expect me to attend the wedding?"

She put out her hand. "I know it'll be hard," she said, "stayin' here, I mean. But your duty to others—"

"Don't you think we've heard enough about duty to others? How about my duty to myself?"

"I guess that's the last thing we ought to think about in the world, if we do try to be fair and square. Your church thinks a heap of you, John. They build on you. You've done more in the little while you've been here than Mr. Langley did in his last fifteen years. We've grown and we're doin' good—doin' it, not talkin' it in prayer meetin'. The parish committee likes you and the poor folks in the society love you. Old Mrs. Prince was tellin' me, only a little spell ago, that she didn't know how she'd have pulled through this dreadful time if 'twa'n't for you. And there's lots of others. Are you goin' to leave them? And what reason will you give for leavin'?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he answered. "I may not give any. But I shall go."

"I don't believe you will. I don't believe you're that kind. I've watched you pretty sharp since you and I have been livin' together and I have more faith in you than that comes to. You haven't acted to me like a coward and I don't think you'll run away."

"Mrs. Coffin, it is so easy for you to talk. Perhaps if I were in your place I should be giving good advice about duty and not running away and so on. But suppose you were in mine."

"Well, suppose I was."

"Suppose—Oh, but there! it's past supposing."

"I don't know's 'tis. My life hasn't been all sunshine and fair winds, by no means."

"That's true. I beg your pardon. You have had troubles and, from what I hear, you've borne them bravely. But you haven't had to face anything like this."

"Haven't I? Well, what is it you're asked to face? Disappointment? I've faced that. Sorrow and heartbreak? I've faced them."

"You've never been asked to sit quietly by and see the one you love more than all the world marry some one else."

"How do you know I ain't? How do you know I ain't doin' just that now?"

"Mrs. Coffin!"

"John Ellery, you listen to me. You think I'm a homely old woman, probably, set in my ways as an eight-day clock. I guess I look like it and act like it. But I ain't so awful old—on the edge of forty, that's all. And when I was your age I wa'n't so awful homely, either. I had fellers aplenty hangin' round and I could have married any one of a dozen. This ain't boastin'; land knows I'm fur from that. I was brought up in this town and even when I was a girl at school there was only one boy I cared two straws about. He and I went to picnics together and to parties and everywhere. Folks used to laugh and say we was keepin' comp'ny, even then.

"Well, when I was eighteen, after father died, I went up to New Bedford to work in a store there. Wanted to earn my own way. And this young feller I'm tellin' you about went away to sea, but every time he come home from a voyage he come to see me and things went on that way till we was promised to each other. The engagement wa'n't announced, but 'twas so, just the same. We'd have been married in another year. And then we quarreled.

"'Twas a fool quarrel, same as that kind gen'rally are. As much my fault as his and as much his as mine, I cal'late. Anyhow, we was both proud, or thought we was, and neither would give in. And he says to me, 'You'll be sorry after I'm gone. You'll wish me back then.' And says I, BEIN' a fool, 'I guess not. There's other fish in the sea.' He sailed and I did wish him back, but I wouldn't write fust and neither would he. And then come another man."

She paused, hesitated, and then continued.

"Never mind about the other man. He was handsome then, in a way, and he had money to spend, and he liked me. He wanted me to marry him. If—if the other, the one that went away, had written I never would have thought of such a thing, but he didn't write. And, my pride bein' hurt, and all, I finally said yes to the second chap. My folks did all they could to stop it; they told me he was dissipated, they said he had a bad name, they told me twa'n't a fit match. And his people, havin' money, was just as set against his takin' a poor girl. Both sides said ruin would come of it. But I married him.

"Well, for the first year 'twa'n't so bad. Not happiness exactly, but not misery either. That come later. His people was well off and he'd never worked much of any. He did for a little while after we was married, but not for long. Then he begun to drink and carry on and lost his place. Pretty soon he begun to neglect me and at last went off to sea afore the mast. We was poor as poverty, but I could have stood that; I did stand it. I took in sewin' and kept up an appearance, somehow. Never told a soul. His folks come patronizin' around and offered me money, so's I needn't disgrace them. I sent 'em rightabout in a hurry. Once in a while he'd come home, get tipsy and abuse me. Still I said nothin'. Thank God, there was no children; that's the one thing I've been thankful for.

"You can't keep such things quiet always. People are bound to find out. They come to me and said, 'Why don't you leave him?' but I wouldn't. I could have divorced him easy enough, there was reasons plenty, but I wouldn't do that. Then word came that he was dead, drowned off in the East Indies somewheres. I come back here to keep house for Sol, my brother, and I kept house for him till he died and they offered me this place here at the parsonage. There! that's my story, part of it, more'n I ever told a livin' soul afore, except Sol."

She ceased speaking. The minister, who had sat silent by the window, apathetically listening or trying to listen, turned his head.

"I apologize, Mrs. Coffin," he said dully, "you have had trials, hard ones. But—"

"But they ain't as hard as yours, you think? Well, I haven't quite finished yet. After word come of my husband's death, the other man come and wanted me to marry him. And I wanted to—oh, how I wanted to! I cared as much for him as I ever did; more, I guess. But I wouldn't—I wouldn't, though it wrung my heart out to say no. I give him up—why? 'cause I thought I had a duty laid on me."

Ellery sighed. "I can see but one duty," he said. "That is the duty given us by God, to marry the one we love."

Keziah's agitation, which had grown as she told her story, suddenly flashed into flame.

"Is that as fur as you can see?" she asked fiercely. "It's an easy duty, then—or looks easy now. I've got a harder one; it's to stand by the promise I gave and the man I married."

He looked at her as if he thought she had lost her wits.

"The man you married?" he replied. "Why, the man you married is dead."

"No, he ain't. You remember the letter you saw me readin' that night when you come back from Come-Outers' meetin'? Well, that letter was from him. He's alive."

For the first time during the interview the minister rose to his feet, shocked out of his despair and apathy by this astounding revelation.

"Alive?" he repeated. "Your husband ALIVE? Why, Mrs. Coffin, this is—"

She waved him to silence. "Don't stop me now," she said. "I've told so much; let me tell the rest. Yes, he's alive. Alive and knockin' round the world somewheres. Every little while he writes me for money and, if I have any, I send it to him. Why? Why 'cause I'm a coward, after all, I guess, and I'm scared he'll do what he says he will and come back. Perhaps you think I'm a fool to put up with it; that's what most folks would say if they knew it. They'd tell me I ought to divorce him. Well, I can't, I CAN'T. I walked into the mess blindfold; I married him in spite of warnin's and everything. I took him for better or for worse, and now that he's turned out worse, I must take my medicine. I can't live with him—that I can't do—but while HE lives I'll stay his wife and give him what money I can spare. That's the duty I told you was laid on me, and it's a hard one, but I don't run away from it."

John Ellery was silent. What could he say? Keziah went on.

"I don't run away from it," she exclaimed, "and you mustn't run away from yours. Your church depends on you, they trust you. Are you goin' to show 'em their trust was misplaced? The girl you wanted is to marry another man, that's true, and it's mighty hard. But she'll marry a good man, and, by and by, she'll be happy."

"Happy!" he said scornfully.

"Yes, happy. I know she'll be happy because I know she's doin' what'll be best for her and because I know him that's to be her husband. I've known him all my life; he's that other one that—that—and I give him up to her; yes, I give him up to her, and try to do it cheerful, because I know it's best for him. Hard for YOU? Great Lord A'mighty! do you think it ain't hard for ME? I—I—"

She stopped short; then covering her face with her apron, she ran from the room. John Ellery heard her descending the stairs, sobbing as she went.

All that afternoon he remained in his chair by the window. It was six o'clock, supper time, when he entered the kitchen. Keziah, looking up from the ironing board, saw him. He was white and worn and grim, but he held out his hand to her.

"Mrs. Coffin," he said, "I'm not going away. You've shown me what devotion to duty really means. I shall stay here and go on with my work."

Her face lit up. "Will you?" she said. "I thought you would. I was sure you was that kind."

CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH THE SEA MIST SAILS

They buried Captain Eben in the little Come-Outer cemetery at the rear of the chapel. A bleak, wind-swept spot was that cemetery, bare of trees and with only a few graves and fewer headstones, for the Come-Outers were a comparatively new sect and their graveyard was new in consequence. The grave was dug in the yellow sand beside that of Mrs. Hammond, Nat's mother, and around it gathered the fifty or sixty friends who had come to pay their last tribute to the old sailor and tavern keeper.

The Come-Outers were there, all of them, and some members of the Regular society, Captain Zeb Mayo, Dr. Parker, Keziah Coffin, Mrs. Higgins, and Ike. Mrs. Didama Rogers was there also, not as a mourner, but because, in her capacity as gatherer of gossip, she made it a point never to miss a funeral. The Rev. Absalom Gott, Come-Outer exhorter at Wellmouth, preached the short sermon, and Ezekiel Bassett added a few remarks. Then a hymn was sung and it was over. The little company filed out of the cemetery, and Captain Eben Hammond was but a memory in Trumet.

Keziah lingered to speak a word with Grace. The girl, looking very white and worn, leaned on the arm of Captain Nat, whose big body acted as a buffer between her and over-sympathetic Come-Outers. Mrs. Coffin silently held out both hands and Grace took them eagerly.

"Thank you for coming, Aunt Keziah," she said. "I was sure you would."

"Least I could do, deary," was the older woman's answer. "Your uncle and I was good friends once; we haven't seen each other so often of late years, but that ain't changed my feelin's. Now you must go home and rest. Don't let any of these"—with a rather scornful glance at Josiah Badger and Ezekiel and the Reverend Absalom—"these Job's comforters bother you. Nat, you see that they let her alone, won't you?"

Captain Nat nodded. He, too, looked very grave and worn. "I'll tend to them," he said shortly. "Come, Grace," he added; "let's go."

But the girl hung back. "Just a minute, Nat," she said. "I—I—would you mind if I spoke to Aunt Keziah—alone? I only want to say a word."

Nat strode off to the cemetery gate, where Josiah Badger stood, brandishing a red cotton handkerchief as a not too-clean emblem of mourning. Mr. Badger eagerly sprang forward, but ran into an impossible barrier in the form of the captain's outstretched arm. Josiah protested and the captain replied. Grace leaned forward.

"Auntie," she whispered, "tell me: Did a letter—Did he—"

"Yes, it came. I gave it to him."

"Did—did he tell you? Do you know?"

"Yes, I know, deary."

"Did he—is he—"

"He's well, deary. He'll be all right. I'll look out for him."

"You will, won't you? You won't let him do anything—"

"Not a thing. Don't worry. We've had a long talk and he's going to stay right here and go on with his work. And nobody else'll ever know, Gracie."

"How—O Aunt Keziah! how he must despise me."

"Despise you! For doin' what was your duty? Nonsense! He'll respect you for it and come to understand 'twas best for both of you, by and by. Don't worry about him, Gracie. I tell you I'll look out for him."

"I guess it will be better if he does despise me. And hate me, too. He can't despise and hate me more than I do myself. But it IS right—what I'm doing; and the other was wrong and wicked. Auntie, you'll come and see me, won't you? I shall be so lonesome."

"Yes, yes; I'll come. Perhaps not right away. There's reasons why I'd better not come right away. But, by and by, after it's all settled and you and Nat"—she hesitated for an instant in spite of herself—"after you and Nat are married I'll come."

"Don't talk about that NOW. Please don't."

"All right, I won't. You be a good, brave girl and look out for Nat; that's your duty and I'm sure you'll do it. And I'll do my best for John."

"Do you call him John?"

"Yup. We had a sort of—of adoptin' ceremony the other mornin' and I—Well, you see, I've got to have somebody to call by their front name and he's about all I've got left."

"O Aunt Keziah! if I could be one half as patient and brave and sweet as you are—"

"Sssh! here comes Nat. Be kind to him. He's sufferin', too; maybe more'n you imagine. Here she is, Nat. Take her back home and be good to her."

The broad-shouldered skipper led his charge out of the gate and down the "Turn-off." Josiah Badger looked after them disgustedly. As Keziah approached, he turned to her.

"I swan to man!" he exclaimed, in offended indignation, "if I ain't losin' my respect for that Nat Hammond. He's the f-f-fuf-for'ardest critter ever I see. I was just agoin' to hail Gracie and ask her what she thought about my leadin' some of the meetin's now her uncle has been called aloft. I wanted to ask her about it fust, afore Zeke Bassett got ahead of me, but that Nat wouldn't let me. Told me she mustn't be b-b-b-bothered about little things now. LITTLE things! Now, what do you think of that, Mrs. Coffin? And I spoke to Lot Taylor, one of our own s-s-sas-sassiety, and asked what he thought of it, and he said for me to go home set d-d-down and let my h-h-h-hah-hair grow. Of all—"

"I tell you what you do, Josiah," broke in the voice of Captain Zeb Mayo, "you go home or somewhere else and set down and have it cut. That'll take pretty nigh as long, and'll keep it from wearin' out your coat collar. Keziah, I've been waitin' for you. Get in my shay and I'll drive you back to the parsonage."

Mrs. Coffin accepted the invitation and a seat in the chaise beside Captain Zeb. The captain spoke of the dead Come-Outer and of his respect for him in spite of the difference in creed. He also spoke of the Rev. John Ellery and of the affection he had come to feel for the young man.

"I like that young feller, Keziah," he said. "Like him for a lot of reasons, same as the boy liked the hash. For one thing, his religion ain't all starch and no sugar. He's good-hearted and kind and—and human. He seems to get just as much satisfaction out of the promise of heaven as he does out of the sartainty of t'other port. He ain't all the time bangin' the bulkhead and sniffin' brimstone, like parsons I have seen. Sulphur's all right for a spring medicine, maybe, but when June comes I like to remember that God made roses. Elkanah, he comes to me a while ago and he says, 'Zebedee,' he says, 'don't you think Mr. Ellery's sermons might be more orthodox?' 'Yes,' says I, 'they might be, but what a mercy 'tis they ain't.' He, he, he! I kind of like to poke Elkanah in the shirt front once in a while, just to hear it crackle. Say, Keziah, you don't think the minister and Annabel are—"

"No," was the emphatic interruption; "I know they ain't; he ain't, anyway."

"Good! Them Danielses cal'late they own the most of this town already; if they owned the minister they'd swell up so the rest of us would have to go aloft or overboard; we'd be crowded off the decks, sure."

"No one owns him. Haven't you found that out?"

"Yup, I cal'late I have and I glory in his spunk."

"I'm glad to hear you say so. Of course Cap'n Elkanah is boss of the parish committee and—"

"What? No, he ain't nuther. He's head of it, but his vote counts just one and no more. What makes you say that?"

"Oh, nuthin'. Only I thought maybe, long as Elkanah was feelin' that Mr. Ellery wa'n't orthodox enough, he might be goin' to make a change."

"He might? HE might! Say, Keziah Coffin, there was Mayos in this town and in this church afore the fust Daniels ever washed ashore; and they'll be here when the last one blows up with his own importance. I'm on that parish committee—you understand?—and I've sailed ships and handled crews. I ain't so old nor feeble but what I can swing a belayin' pin. Boss! I'll have you to know that no livin' man bosses me."

"All right! I didn't mean to stir you up, Zebedee. But from things Cap'n Daniels has said I gathered that he was runnin' the committee. And, as I'm a friend of Mr. Ellery, it—"

"Friend! Well, so'm I, ain't I? If you ever hear of Daniels tryin' any tricks against the minister, you send for me, that's all. I'LL show him. Boss! Humph!"

The wily Keziah alighted at the parsonage gate with the feeling that she had sown seed in fertile ground. She was quite aware of Captain Zeb's jealousy of the great Daniels. And the time might come when her parson needed an influential friend on the committee and in the Regular society.

The news of the engagement between Captain Nat Hammond and Grace Van Horne, told by Dr. Parker to one or two of his patients, spread through Trumet like measles through a family of small children. Didama Rogers learned it, so did Lavinia Pepper, and after that it might as well have been printed on the walls for all to read. It was talked over and gossiped about in every household from the lighthouse keeper's family to that of George Washington Cash, who lived in the one-room hovel in the woods near the Wellmouth line, and was a person of distinction, in his way, being the sole negro in the county. And whenever it was discussed it was considered a fine thing for both parties concerned. Almost everyone said it was precisely what they expected.

Annabel Daniels and her father had not expected it. They were, however, greatly pleased. In their discussion, which lasted far into the night, Captain Elkanah expressed the opinion that the unexpected denouement was the result of his interview with Eben. He had told the old Come-Outer what would happen to his ward if she persisted in her impudent and audacious plot to entrap a Regular clergyman. She, being discovered, had yielded, perforce, and had accepted Nat as the next best catch.

Annabel was not satisfied with this explanation. Of course, she said, she did not pretend to believe Grace's statement that she had found her uncle unconscious. No doubt the pair had had an interview and all that. But she believed the minister himself had come to his senses and had dismissed the brazen creature. She did not blame Mr. Ellery so much. He was a young man, with a kind heart, and no doubt the "Van Horne person" had worked upon his sympathies and had taken advantage of his inexperience of feminine wiles.

"I think, pa," she said, "that it's our duty, yours and mine, to treat him just as we always have. He doesn't know that we know, and we will keep the secret. And, as Christians, we should forget and forgive. We'll invite him here as we always have, keep him under our good influence, and be very kind to him, poor innocent. As for Captain Hammond, I'm sorry for him, knowing the kind of wife he is going to have, but no doubt Come-Outers are not particular."

Kyan Pepper was another whom the news of the engagement surprised greatly. When Lavinia told him of it, at the dinner table, he dropped the knife he was holding and the greasy section of fish-ball balanced upon it.

"'Bishy," said Miss Pepper, "what do you s'pose has happened down to the Hammond tavern?"

"Oh, I know that," was the reply. "I heard that long ago; Cap'n Eben's dead."

"'Course he's dead; and I knew you knew it. Land sakes! don't be such a ninny. Why, I told you myself."

"Well, I didn't know but you'd forgot. Anybody's li'ble to forget who they've told things to. Why, I've forgot more things—"

"Yes, there ain't no doubt about that. I've told you a million times, if I have once, to tuck your napkin round your neck when you've got your Sunday clothes on. And there you be this minute without a sign of a napkin."

"Why, Laviny! I MUST have it round my neck. I know I—"

"Don't be so foolish! Think I'm blind? Can't I see you ain't got it? Now where is it?"

Kyan began a futile hunt for the missing napkin, in his lap, on the table, and finally under it.

"I don't understand," he stammered, "where that napkin can be. I'm just as sure I had it and now I'm just as sure I ain't got it. What do you s'pose I done with it?"

"Goodness knows! 'Twouldn't surprise me if you'd et it, you're that absent-minded. Here! what's that stickin' out of your breast pocket?"

Her brother put his hand to the pocket indicated and produced the missing napkin, much crumpled.

"There!" he exclaimed, in a tone of relief. "Now I remember. It must have dropped on the floor and I thought 'twas my handkerchief and picked it up and—"

"What did you think you'd be carryin' a white handkerchief for, on a week day?"

"Well, I had on my Sunday suit and—"

"Yes, and for the dear mercy sakes WHY have you got it on?"

Kyan saw an opportunity for self-justification.

"You TOLD me to put it on," he declared triumphantly. "You said yourself I'd better rig out in my Sunday clothes 'cause we might go to Eben's funeral. You know you did."

"Hear the man! And then, after you've dressed up to go to his funeral, you pretend to believe I'm goin' to tell you he's dead. I never—"

"Well, what IS it, then? He ain't come to life, has he?"

"Grace Van Horne's engaged to be married, that's what it is. Look out! Oh, you—"

Just here occurred the accident already described. Knife and fish ball descended upon the waistcoat belonging to the "Sunday suit." Lavinia flew for warm water, ammonia, and a cloth, and the soiled waistcoat was industriously scrubbed. The cleansing process was accompanied by a lively tongue lashing, to which Kyan paid little attention.

"Engaged?" he kept repeating. "Gracie Van Horne engaged? Engaged? En—"

"Be still, you poll parrot! Dear! dear! dear! look at them spots. Yes, yes; don't say it again; she's engaged."

"Who—who—who—"

"Now you've turned to an owl, I do believe. 'Hoo! hoo!' She's engaged to Nat Hammond, that's who. Nothin' very surprisin' about that, is there?"

Kyan made no answer. He rubbed his forehead, while his sister rubbed the grease spots. In jerky sentences she told of the engagement and how the news had reached her.

"I can't believe it," faltered Abishai. "She goin' to marry Nat! Why, I can't understand. I thought—"

"What did you think? See here! you ain't keepin' anything from me, be you?"

The answer was enthusiastically emphatic.

"No, no, no, no!" declared Kyan. "Only I didn't know they was—was—"

"Neither did anybody else, but what of it? Folks don't usually advertise when they're keepin' comp'ny, do they?"

"No—o. But it's gen'rally found out. I know if I was keepin' comp'ny—or you was, La-viny—"

His sister started.

"What makes you say that?" she demanded, looking quickly up from her rubbing.

"Why, nothin'. Only if I was—or you was, somebody'd see somethin' suspicious and kind of drop a hint, and—"

"Better for them if they 'tended to their own affairs," was the sharp answer. "I ain't got any patience with folks that's always talkin' about their neighbor's doin's. There! now you go out and stand alongside the cook stove till that wet place dries. Don't you move till 'TIS dry, neither."

So to the kitchen went Kyan, to stand, a sort of living clotheshorse, beside the hot range. But during the drying process he rubbed his forehead many times. Remembering what he had seen in the grove he could not understand; but he also remembered, even more vividly, what Keziah Coffin had promised to do if he ever breathed a word. And he vowed again that that word should not be breathed.

The death and funeral of Captain Eben furnished Trumet with a subject of conversation for a week or more. Then, at the sewing circle and at the store and after prayer meeting, both at the Regular meeting house and the Come-Outer chapel, speculation centered on the marriage of Nat and Grace. When was it to take place? Would the couple live at the old house and "keep packet tavern" or would the captain go to sea again, taking his bride with him? Various opinions, pro and con, were expressed by the speculators, but no one could answer authoritatively, because none knew except those most interested, and the latter would not tell.

John Ellery heard the discussions at the sewing circle when, in company with some of the men of his congregation, he dropped in at these gatherings for tea after the sewing was over. He heard them at church, before and after the morning service, and when he made pastoral calls. People even asked his opinion, and when he changed the subject inferred, some of them, that he did not care about the doings of Come-Outers. Then they switched to inquiries concerning his health.

"You look awful peaked lately, Mr. Ellery," said Didama Rogers. "Ain't you feelin' well?"

The minister answered that he was as well as usual, or thought he was.

"No, no, you ain't nuther," declared Didama. "You look's if you was comin' down with a spell of somethin'. I ain't the only one that's noticed it. Why, Thankful Payne says to me only yesterday, 'Didama,' says she, 'the minister's got somethin' on his mind and it's wearin' of him out.' You ain't got nothin' on your mind, have you, Mr. Ellery?"

"I guess not, Mrs. Rogers. It's a beautiful afternoon, isn't it?

"There! I knew you wa'n't well. A beautiful afternoon, and it hotter'n furyation and gettin' ready to rain at that! Don't tell me! 'Tain't your mind, Mr. Ellery, it's your blood that's gettin' thin. My husband had a spell just like it a year or two afore he died, and the doctor said he needed rest and a change. Said he'd ought to go away somewheres by himself. I put my foot down on THAT in a hurry. 'The idea!' I says. 'You, a sick man, goin' off all alone by yourself to die of lonesomeness. If you go, I go with you.' So him and me went up to Boston and it rained the whole week we was there, and we set in a little box of a hotel room with a window that looked out at a brick wall, and set and set and set, and that's all. I kept talkin' to him to cheer him up, but he never cheered. I'd talk to him for an hour steady and when I'd stop and ask a question he'd only groan and say yes, when he meant no. Finally, I got disgusted, after I'd asked him somethin' four or five times and he'd never answered, and I told him, I believed he was gettin' deef. 'Lordy!' he says, 'I wish I was!' Well, that was enough for ME. Says I, 'If your mind's goin' to give out we'd better be home.' So home we come. And that's all the good change and rest done HIM. Hey? What did you say, Mr. Ellery?"

"Er—oh, nothing, nothing, Mrs. Rogers."

"Yes. So home we come and I'd had enough of doctors to last. I figgered out that his blood was thinnin' and I knew what was good for that. My great Aunt Hepsy, that lived over to East Wellmouth, she was a great hand for herbs and such and she'd give me a receipt for thickenin' the blood that was somethin' wonderful. It had more kind of healin' herbs in it than you could shake a stick at. I cooked a kittleful and got him to take a dose four times a day. He made more fuss than a young one about takin' it. Said it tasted like the Evil One, and such profane talk, and that it stuck to his mouth so's he couldn't relish his vittles; but I never let up a mite. He had to take it and it done him a world of good. Now I've got that receipt yet, Mr. Ellery, and I'll make some of that medicine for you. I'll fetch it down to-morrow. Yes, yes, I will. I'm agoin' to, so you needn't say no. And perhaps I'll have heard somethin' about Cap'n Nat and Grace by that time."

She brought the medicine, and the minister promptly, on her departure, handed it over to Keziah, who disposed of it just as promptly.

"What did I do with it?" repeated the housekeeper. "Well, I'll tell you. I was kind of curious to see what 'twas like, so I took a teaspoonful. I did intend to pour the rest of it out in the henyard, but after that taste I had too much regard for the hens. So I carried it way down to the pond and threw it in, jug and all. B-r-r-r! Of all the messes that—I used to wonder what made Josh Rogers go moonin' round makin' his lips go as if he was crazy. I thought he was talkin' to himself, but now I know better, he was TASTIN'. B-r-r-r!"

Keziah was the life of the gloomy parsonage. Without her the minister would have broken down. Time and time again he was tempted to give up, in spite of his promise, and leave Trumet, but her pluck and courage made him ashamed of himself and he stayed to fight it out. She watched him and tended him and "babied" him as if he was a spoiled child, pretending to laugh at herself for doing it and at him for permitting it. She cooked the dishes he liked best, she mended his clothes, she acted as a buffer between him and callers who came at inopportune times. She was cheerful always when he was about, and no one would have surmised that she had a sorrow in the world. But Ellery knew and she knew he knew, so the affection and mutual esteem between the two deepened. He called her "Aunt Keziah" at her request and she continued to call him "John." This was in private, of course; in public he was "Mr. Ellery" and she "Mrs. Coffin."

In his walks about town he saw nothing of Grace. She and Mrs. Poundberry and Captain Nat were still at the old home and no one save themselves knew what their plans might be. Yet, oddly enough, Ellery was the first outsider to learn these plans and that from Nat himself.

He met the captain at the corner of the "Turnoff" one day late in August. He tried to make his bow seem cordial, but was painfully aware that it was not. Nat, however, seemed not to notice, but crossed the road and held out his hand.

"How are you, Mr. Ellery?" he said. "I haven't run across you for sometime. What's the matter? Seems to me you look rather under the weather."

Ellery answered that he was all right and, remembering that he had not met the captain since old Hammond's death, briefly expressed his sympathy. His words were perfunctory and his manner cold. His reason told him that this man was not to blame—was rather to be pitied, if Keziah's tale was true. Yet it is hard to pity the one who is to marry the girl you love. Reason has little to do with such matters.

"Well, Mr. Ellery," said Captain Nat, "I won't keep you. I see you're in a hurry. Just thought I'd run alongside a minute and say good-by. Don't know's I'll see you again afore I sail."

"Before you sail? You—you are going away?"

"Yup. My owners have been after me for a good while, but I wouldn't leave home on account of dad's health. Now he's gone, I've got to be gettin' back on salt water again. My ship's been drydocked and overhauled and she's in New York now loadin' for Manila. It's a long vy'age, even if I come back direct, which ain't likely. So I may not see the old town again for a couple of years. Take care of yourself, won't you? Good men, especially ministers, are scurse, and from what I hear about you I cal'late Trumet needs you."

"When are you going?"

"Last of next week, most likely."

"Will you—shall you go alone? Are you to be—to be—"

"Married? No. Grace and I have talked it over and we've agreed it's best to wait till I come back. You see, dad's been dead such a little while, and all, that—well, we're goin' to wait, anyhow. She'll stay in the old house with Hannah, and I've fixed things so she'll be provided for while I'm gone. I left it pretty much to her. If she'd thought it best for us to marry now, I cal'late I should have—have—well, done what she wanted. But she didn't. Ah, hum!" he added with a sigh; "she's a good girl, a mighty good girl. Well, so long and good luck."

"Good-by, captain."

"Good-by. Er—I say, Mr. Ellery, how things at the parsonage? All well there, are you?"

"Yes."

"Er—Keziah—Mrs. Coffin, your housekeeper, is she smart?"

"Yes. She's well."

"That's good. Say, you might tell her good-by for me, if you want to. Tell her I wished her all the luck there was. And—and—just say that there ain't any—well, that her friend—say just that, will you?—her FRIEND said 'twas all right. She'll understand; it's a—a sort of joke between us."

"Very good, captain; I'll tell her."

"Much obliged. And just ask her to keep an eye on Grace while I'm gone. Tell her I leave Gracie under her wing. Keziah and me are old chums, in a way, you see."

"Yes. I'll tell her that, too."

"And don't forget the 'friend' part. Well, so long."

They shook hands and parted.

Didama and her fellow news-venders distributed the tale of Captain Nat's sailing broadcast during the next few days. There was much wonderment at the delayed marriage, but the general verdict was that Captain Eben's recent death and the proper respect due to it furnished sufficient excuse. Hannah Poundberry, delighted at being so close to the center of interest, talked and talked, and thus Grace was spared the interviews which would have been a trouble to her. Nat left town, via the packet, on the following Wednesday. Within another week came the news that his ship, the Sea Mist, had sailed from New York, bound for Manila. Her topsails sank beneath the horizon, and she vanished upon the wild waste of tumbling waves and out of Trumet's knowledge, as many another vessel, manned and officered by Cape Cod men, had done. The village talked of her and her commander for a few days and then forgot them both. Only at the old home by the landing and at the parsonage were they remembered.

CHAPTER XV

IN WHICH TRUMET TALKS OF CAPTAIN NAT

Summer was over, autumn came, passed, and it was winter—John Ellery's first winter in Trumet. Fish weirs were taken up, the bay filled with ice, the packet ceased to run, and the village settled down to hibernate until spring. The stage came through on its regular trips, except when snow or slush rendered the roads impassable, but passengers were very few. Occasionally there were northeast gales, with shrieking winds, driving gusts of sleet and hail and a surf along the ocean side that bellowed and roared and tore the sandy beach into new shapes, washing away shoals and building others, blocking the mouth of the little inlet where the fish boats anchored and opening a new channel a hundred yards farther down. Twice there were wrecks, one of a fishing schooner, the crew of which were fortunate enough to escape by taking to the dories, and another, a British bark, which struck on the farthest bar and was beaten to pieces by the great waves, while the townspeople stood helplessly watching from the shore, for launching a boat in that surf was impossible.

The minister was one of those who watched. News of the disaster had been brought to the village by the lightkeeper's assistant, and Ellery and most of the able-bodied men in town had tramped the three miles to the beach, facing the screaming wind and the cutting blasts of flying sand. As they came over the dunes there were times when they had to dig their heels into the ground and bend forward to stand against the freezing gale. And, as they drew nearer, the thunder of the mighty surf grew ever louder, until they saw the white clouds of spray leap high above the crazily tossing, flapping bunches of beach grass that topped the last knoll.

Three masts and a broken bowsprit sticking slantwise up from a whirl of creamy white, that was all they could see of the bark, at first glance. But occasionally, as the breakers drew back for another cruel blow, they caught glimpses of the tilted deck, smashed bare of houses and rail.

"Those black things on the masts?" asked Ellery, bending to scream the question into the ear of Gaius Winslow, his companion. "Are they—it can't be possible that they're—"

"Yup," shrieked Gaius in reply, "they're men. Crew lashed in the riggin'. Poor fellers! it'll soon be over for 'em. And they're most likely frozen stiff a'ready and won't sense drownin', that's a comfort."

"Men!" repeated the minister in horror. "Men! Great God! and are we to stand by here and see them die without lifting a hand? Why, it's barbarous! It's—"

Winslow seized his arm and pointed.

"Look!" he shouted. "Look at them! How much good would our liftin' hands do against them?"

Ellery looked. The undertow, that second, was sucking the beach dry, sucking with such force that gravel and small stones pattered down the slope in showers. And behind it a wave, its ragged top raveled by the wind into white streamers, was piling up, up, up, sheer and green and mighty, curling over now and descending with a hammer blow that shook the land beneath their feet. And back of it reared another, and another, and another, an eighth of a mile of whirling, surging, terrific breakers, with a yelling hurricane whipping them on.

It was soon over, as Gaius had said it would be. A mighty leap of spray, a section of hull broken off and tossed into view for an instant, then two of the masts went down. The other followed almost at once. Then the watchers, most of them, went back to the village, saying little or nothing and dispersing silently to their homes.

During the next fortnight John Ellery conducted six funeral services, brief prayers beside the graves of unknown men from that wreck. The bodies, as they were washed ashore, were put into plain coffins paid for by the board of selectmen, and buried in the corner of the Regular cemetery beside other waifs thrown up by the sea in other years. It was a sad experience for him, but it was an experience and tended to make him forget his own sorrow just a little. Or, if not to forget, at least to think of and sympathize more keenly with the sorrows of others. Somewhere, in England or Ireland or scattered over the wide world, there were women and children waiting for these men, waiting anxiously for news of their safe arrival in port, praying for them. When he mentioned this thought to the townspeople they nodded philosophically and said yes, they "presumed likely." As Captain Zeb put it, "Most sailors are fools enough to get married, prob'ly this lot wa'n't any exception." It was no new thought to him or to any other dweller in that region. It was almost a fixed certainty that, if you went to sea long enough, you were bound to be wrecked sometime or other. The chances were that, with ordinary luck and good management, you would escape with your life. Luck, good or bad, was the risk of the trade; good management was expected, as a matter of course.

Mr. Pepper made no more calls at the parsonage, and when the minister met him, at church or elsewhere, seemed anxious to avoid an interview.

"Well, Abishai," asked Ellery, on one of these occasions, "how are you getting on at home? Has your sister locked you up again?"

"No, sir, she ain't," replied Kyan. "Laviny, she's sort of diff'rent lately. She ain't nigh so—so down on a feller as she used to be. I can get out once in a while by myself nowadays, when she wants to write a letter or somethin'."

"Oh, she's writing letters, is she?"

"Um—hm. Writes one about every once in a week. I don't know who they're to, nuther, but I have my suspicions. You see, we've got a cousin out West—out Pennsylvany way—and he ain't very well and has got a turrible lot of money. I'm sort of surmisin' that Laviny's writin' to him. We're about his only relations that's left alive and—and so—"

"I see." The minister smiled.

"Yup. Laviny's a pretty good navigator, fur's keepin' an eye to wind'ard is concerned. She was awful down on Phineas—that's his name—'cause he married a Philadelphy woman, but he's a widower man now, so I s'pose she feels better toward him. She's talkin' of goin' up to Sandwich pretty soon."

"She IS? Alone?"

"So she says."

"To leave you here? Why! well, I'm surprised."

"Godfreys mighty! so be I. But she says she b'lieves she needs a change and there's church conference up there, you know, and she figgers that she ain't been to conference she don't know when. I s'pose you'll go, won't you, Mr. Ellery?"

"Probably."

"Um—hm. I kind of wisht I was goin' myself. 'Twill be kind of lonesome round home without her."

Considering that that variety of lonesomeness had been Abishai's dream of paradise for years, Ellery thought his change of heart a good joke and told Keziah of it when he returned to the parsonage. The housekeeper was greatly surprised.

"Well! well! well!" she exclaimed. "Miracles'll never cease. I don't wonder so much at Laviny wantin' to go to conference, but her darin' to go and leave Kyan at home is past belief. Why, every time she's had a cold her one fear was that she'd die and leave 'Bish behind to be kidnaped by some woman. Kyan himself was sick once, and the story was that his sister set side of the bed night and day and read him over and over again that chapter in the Bible that says there's no marryin' or givin' in marriage in heaven. Dr. Parker told me that he didn't believe 'Bish got ha'f the comfort out of that passage that she did. And now she's goin' to Sandwich and leave him. I can't think it's true."

But it was true, and Lavinia got herself elected a delegate and went, in company with Captain Elkanah, Mrs. Mayo, and others, to the conference. She was a faithful attendant at the meetings and seemed to be having a very good time. She introduced the minister to one Caleb Pratt, a resident of Sandwich, whom she said she had known ever since she was a girl.

"Mr. Pratt's a cousin to Thankful Payne over to home," volunteered Lavinia. "You know Thankful, Mr. Ellery."

Ellery did know Mrs. Payne and said so. Mr. Pratt, who was dressed in a new suit of black which appeared to hurt him, imparted the information that he'd heard tell consider'ble of Mr. Ellery.

"I enjoyed your sermon to-night fust—rate," he added solemnly. "Fust—rate, sir—yes."

"Did you, indeed? I'm glad."

"Yes, sir. You used words in that sermon that I never heard afore in my life. 'Twas grand."

Lavinia confided to her pastor that Mr. Pratt made the best shoes in Ostable County. He could fit ANY kind of feet, she declared, and the minister ought to try him sometime. She added that he had money in the bank.

The Reverend John rode home in the stage beside Miss Annabel, not from choice, but because the young lady's father insisted upon it. Miss Daniels gushed and enthused as she always did. As they drove by the Corners the minister, who had been replying absently to Annabel's questions, suddenly stopped short in the middle of a sentence. His companion, leaning forward to look out of the window, saw Grace Van Horne entering the store. For an instant Annabel's face wore a very unpleasant expression. Then she smiled and said, in her sweetest manner:

"Why, there's the tavern girl! I haven't seen her for sometime. How old she looks! I suppose her uncle's death has aged her. Well, she'll be married soon, just as soon as Cap'n Nat gets back. They perfectly worship each other, those two. They say she writes him the longest letters. Hannah Poundberry told me. Hannah's a queer creature and common, but devoted to the Hammonds, Mr. Ellery. However, you're not interested in Come-Outers, are you? Ha, ha!"

Ellery made some sort of an answer, but he could not have told what it was. The sight of Grace had brought back all that he was trying so hard to forget. Why couldn't one forget, when it was so painful—and so useless—to remember?

Spring once more; then summer. And now people were again speaking of Captain Nat Hammond. His ship was overdue, long overdue. Even in those days, when there were no cables and the telegraph was still something of a novelty, word of his arrival should have reached Trumet months before this. But it had not come, and did not. Before the summer was over, the wise heads of the retired skippers were shaking dubiously. Something had happened to the Sea Mist, something serious.

As the weeks and months went by without news of the missing vessel, this belief became almost a certainty. At the Come-Outer chapel, where Ezekiel Bassett now presided, prayers were offered for the son of their former leader. These prayers were not as fervent as they might have been, for Grace's nonattendance at meetings was causing much comment and a good deal of resentment. She came occasionally, but not often. "I always said she was stuck-up and thought she was too good for the rest of us," remarked "Sukey B." spitefully. "'And, between you and me, pa says he thinks Nat Hammond would be one to uphold her in it. He wa'n't a bit spirituous and never experienced religion. If anything HAS happened to him, it's a punishment sent, that's what pa thinks."

Those were gloomy days at the parsonage. Keziah said little concerning the topic of which all the village was talking, and John Ellery forebore to mention it. The housekeeper was as faithful as ever in the performance of her household duties, but her smile had gone and she was worn and anxious. The minister longed to express his sympathy, but Keziah had not mentioned Nat's name for months, not since he, Ellery, gave her the message intrusted to him by the captain before sailing. He would have liked to ask about Grace, for he knew Mrs. Coffin visited the Hammond home occasionally, but this, too, he hesitated to do. He heard from others that the girl was bearing the suspense bravely, that she refused to give up hope, and was winning the respect of all the thinking class in Trumet by her courage and patience. Even the most bigoted of the Regulars, Captain Daniels and his daughter excepted of course, had come to speak highly of her. "She's a spunky girl," declared Captain Zeb, with emphasis. "There's nothing of the milk-sop and cry-baby about her. She's fit to be a sailor's wife, and I only hope Nat's alive to come back and marry her. He was a durn good feller, too—savin' your presence, Mr. Ellery—and if he was forty times a Come-Outer I'd say the same thing. I'm 'fraid he's gone, though, poor chap. As good a seaman as he was would have fetched port afore this if he was atop of water. As for Gracie, she's a brick, and a lady, every inch of her. My old girl went down t'other day to call on her and that's the fust Come-Outer she's been to see sence there was any. Why don't you go see her, too, Mr. Ellery? 'Twould be a welcome change from Zeke Bassett and his tribe. Go ahead! it would be the Almighty's own work and the society'd stand back of you, all them that's wuth considerin', anyhow."

This was surprising advice from a member of the Regular and was indicative of the changed feeling in the community, but the minister, of course, could not take it. He had plunged headlong into his church work, hoping that it and time would dull the pain of his terrible shock and disappointment. It had been dulled somewhat, but it was still there, and every mention of her name revived it.

One afternoon Keziah came into his study, where he was laboring with his next Sunday sermon, and sat down in the rocking-chair. She had been out and still wore her bonnet and shawl.

"John," she said, "I ask your pardon for disturbin' you. I know you're busy."

Ellery laid down his pen. "Never too busy to talk with you, Aunt Keziah," he observed. "What is it?"

"I wanted to ask if you knew Mrs. Prince was sick?"

"No. Is she? I'm awfully sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?"

"No, I guess not. Only she's got a cold and is kind of under the weather. I thought p'r'aps you'd like to run up and see her. She thinks the world and all of you, 'cause you was so good when she was distressed about her son. Poor old thing! she's had a hard time of it."