"I will go. I ought to go, of course. I'm glad you reminded me of it."

"Yes. I told her you hadn't meant to neglect her, but you'd been busy fussin' with the fair and the like of that."

"That was all. I'll go right away. Have you been there to-day?"

"No. I just heard that she was ailin' from Didama Rogers. Didama said she was all but dyin', so I knew she prob'ly had a little cold, or somethin'. If she was really very bad, Di would have had her buried by this time, so's to be sure her news was ahead of anybody else's. I ain't been up there, but I met her t'other mornin'."

"Didama?"

"No; Mrs. Prince. She'd come down to see Grace."

"Oh."

"Yes. The old lady's been awful kind and sympathizin' since—since this new trouble. It reminds her of the loss of her own boy, I presume likely, and so she feels for Grace. John, what do they say around town about—about HIM?"

"Captain Hammond?"

"Yes."

The minister hesitated. Keziah did not wait for him to answer.

"I see," she said slowly. "Do they all feel that way?"

"Why, if you mean that they've all given up hope, I should hardly say that. Captain Mayo and Captain Daniels were speaking of it in my hearing the other day and they agreed that there was still a chance."

"A pretty slim one, though, they cal'lated, didn't they?"

"Well, they were—were doubtful, of course. There was the possibility that he had been wrecked somewhere and hadn't been picked up. They cited several such cases. The South Pacific is full of islands where vessels seldom touch, and he and his crew may be on one of these."

"Yes. They might, but I'm afraid not. Ah, hum!"

She rose and was turning away. Ellery rose also and laid his hand on her arm.

"Aunt Keziah," he said, "I'm very sorry. I respected Captain Hammond, in spite of—of—in spite of everything. I've tried to realize that he was not to blame. He was a good man and I haven't forgotten that he saved my life that morning on the flats. And I'm so sorry for YOU."

She did not look at him.

"John," she answered, with a sigh, "sometimes I think you'd better get another housekeeper."

"What? Are you going to leave me? YOU?"

"Oh, 'twouldn't be because I wanted to. But it seems almost as if there was a kind of fate hangin' over me and that," she smiled faintly, "as if 'twas sort of catchin', as you might say. Everybody I ever cared for has had somethin' happen to 'em. My brother died; my—the man I married went to the dogs; then you and Grace had to be miserable and I had to help make you so; I sent Nat away and he blamed me and—"

"No, no. He didn't blame you. He sent you word that he didn't."

"Yes, but he did, all the same. He must have. I should if I'd been in his place. And now he's dead, and won't ever understand—on this earth, anyhow. I guess I'd better clear out and leave you afore I spoil your life."

"Aunt Keziah, you're my anchor to windward, as they say down here. If I lost you, goodness knows where I should drift. Don't you ever talk of leaving me again."

"Thank you, John. I'm glad you want me to stay. I won't leave yet awhile; never—unless I have to."

"Why should you ever have to?"

"Well, I don't know. Yes, I do know, too. John, I had another letter t'other day."

"You did? From—from that man?"

"Yup, from—" For a moment it seemed as if she were about to pronounce her husband's name, something she had never done in his presence; but if she thought of it, she changed her mind.

"From him," she said. "He wanted money, of course; he always does. But that wa'n't the worst. The letter was from England, and in it he wrote that he was gettin' sick of knockin' around and guessed he'd be for comin' to the States pretty soon and huntin' me up. Said what was the use of havin' an able-bodied wife if she couldn't give her husband a home."

"The scoundrel!"

"Yes, I know what he is, maybe full as well as you do. That's why I spoke of leavin' you. If that man comes to Trumet, I'll go, sure as death."

"No, no. Aunt Keziah, you must free yourself from him. No power on earth can compel you to longer support such a—"

"None on earth, no. But it's my punishment and I've got to put up with it. I married him with my eyes wide open, done it to spite the—the other, as much as anything, and I must bear the burden. But I tell you this, John: if he comes here, to this town, where I've been respected and considered a decent woman, if he comes here, I go—somewhere, anywhere that'll be out of the sight of them that know me. And wherever I go he shan't be with me. THAT I won't stand! I'd rather die, and I hope I do. Don't talk to me any more now—don't! I can't stand it."

She hurried out of the room. Later, as the minister passed through the dining room on his way to the door, she spoke to him again.

"John," she said, "I didn't say what I meant to when I broke in on you just now. I meant to tell you about Grace. I knew you'd like to know and wouldn't ask. She's bearin' up well, poor girl. She thought the world of Nat, even though she might not have loved him in the way that—"

"What's that? What are you saying, Aunt Keziah?"

"I mean—well, I mean that he'd always been like an own brother to her and she cared a lot for him."

"But you said she didn't love him."

"Did I? That was a slip of the tongue, maybe. But she bears it well and I don't think she gives up hope. I try not to, for her sake, and I try not to show her how I feel."

She sewed vigorously for a few moments. Then she said:

"She's goin' away, Gracie is."

"Going away?"

"Yup. She's goin' to stay with a relation of the Hammonds over in Connecticut for a spell. I coaxed her into it. Stayin' here at home with all this suspense and with Hannah Poundberry's tongue droppin' lamentations like kernels out of a corn sheller, is enough to kill a healthy batch of kittens with nine lives apiece. She didn't want to go; felt that she must stay here and wait for news; but I told her we'd get news to her as soon as it come, and she's goin'."

Ellery took his hat from the peg and opened the door. His foot was on the step when Keziah spoke again.

"She—it don't mean nothin', John, except that she ain't so hard-hearted as maybe you might think—she's asked me about you 'most every time I've been there. She told me to take good care of you."

The door closed. Keziah put down her sewing and listened as the minister's step sounded on the walk. She rose, went to the window and looked after him. She was wondering if she had made a mistake in mentioning Grace's name. She had meant to cheer him with the thought that he was not entirely forgotten, that he was, at least, pitied; but perhaps it would have been better to have remained silent. Her gaze shifted and she looked out over the bay, blue and white in the sun and wind. When she was a girl the sea had been kind to her, it had brought her father home safe, and those homecomings were her pleasantest memories. But she now hated it. It was cruel and cold and wicked. It had taken the man she loved and would have loved till she died, even though he could never have been hers, and she had given him to another; it had taken him, killed him cruelly, perhaps. And now it might be bringing to her the one who was responsible for all her sorrow, the one she could not think of without a shudder. She clung to the window sash and prayed aloud.

"Lord! Lord!" she pleaded, "don't put any more on me now. I couldn't stand it! I couldn't!"

Ellery, too, was thinking deeply as he walked up the main road on his way to Mrs. Prince's. Keziah's words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain. She had asked about him. She had not forgotten him altogether. And what did the housekeeper mean by saying that she had not loved Captain Hammond in the way that—Not that it could make any difference. Nothing could give him back his happiness. But what did it mean?

Mrs. Prince was very glad to see him. He found her in the big armchair with the quilted back and the projecting "wings" at each side of her head. She was wrapped in a "Rising Sun" quilt which was a patchwork glory of red and crimson. A young girl, a neighbor, who was apparently acting in the dual capacity of nurse and housekeeper, admitted him to the old lady's presence.

"Well, well!" she exclaimed delightedly. "Then you ain't forgot me altogether. I'm awful glad to see you. You'll excuse me for not gettin' up; my back's got more pains in it than there is bones, a good sight. Dr. Parker says it's nothin' serious, and all I had to do was set still and take his medicine. I told him that either the aches or the medicine made settin' still serious enough, and when your only amusement is listenin' to Emeline Berry—she's the girl that's takin' care of me—when your only fun is listenin' to Emeline drop your best dishes in the kitchen sink, it's pretty nigh tragic. There! there! don't mind an old woman, Mr. Ellery. Set down and let's talk. It's a comfort to be able to say somethin' besides 'Don't, Emeline!' and 'Be sure you pick up all the pieces!'"

Mrs. Prince's good spirits were of short duration. Her conversation soon shifted to the loss of her son and she wept, using the corner of the quilt to wipe away her tears. "Eddie" had been her idol and, as she said, it was hard to believe what folks kept tellin' her, that it was God's will, and therefore all for the best.

"That's so easy to say," she sobbed. "Maybe it is best for the Lord, but how about me? I needed him more than they did up there, or I think I did. O Mr. Ellery, I don't mean to be irreverent, but WHY was it all for the best?"

Questions like this are hard to answer. The young minister tried, but the answers were unsatisfactory, even to him.

"And there's Nat Hammond," continued Mrs. Prince. "A fine man—no better anywhere, even though his father was a Come-Outer—just goin' to be married and all, now they say he's drowned—why? Why was that necessary?"

Ellery could not reply. The old lady did not wait for him to do so. The mention of Captain Nat's name reminded her of other things.

"Poor Gracie!" she said. "It's turrible hard on her. I went down to see her two or three times afore I was took with this backache. She's an awful nice girl. And pretty as a pink, too. Don't you think so? Hey? don't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes. I've been kind of expectin' she might get up to see me. Hannah Poundberry told the Berrys that she said she was comin'. I don't care about her bein' a Come-Outer. I ain't proud, Mr. Ellery. And there's Come-Outers and COME-Outers. Proud! Lord 'a' mercy! what has an old woman, next door to the poorhouse, got to be proud over? Yes, she told Hannah she was comin', and the Berry folks thought it might be to-day. So I've been watchin' for her. What! you ain't agoin', Mr. Ellery?"

"I think I must, Mrs. Prince."

"Oh, don't! Do stay a spell longer. Gracie might come and I'd like for you to meet her. She needs sympathy and comfort an awful lot, and there's no tellin', you might convert her to bein' a Reg'lar. Oh, yes, you might. You've got the most persuadin' way, everybody says so. And you don't know her very well, do you? Land sakes alive! talk about angels! I snum if she ain't comin' up the road this blessed minute."

John Ellery had risen. Now he seized his hat and moved hastily toward the door. Mrs. Prince called to him to remain, but he would not. However, her good-bys delayed him for a minute, and before he reached the yard gate Grace was opening it. They were face to face for the first time since they had parted in the grove, so many months before.

She was thinner and paler, he saw that. And dressed very quietly in black. She looked at him, as he stood before her in the path, and her cheeks flushed and her eyes fell. He stepped aside and raised his hat.

She bowed gravely and murmured a "Good afternoon." Then she passed on up the path toward the door. He watched her for an instant and then stepped quickly after her. The black gown and the tired look in her eyes touched him to the heart. He could not let her go without a word.

She turned at the sound of his step behind her.

"Er—Miss Van Horne," he stammered, "I merely wanted to tell you how deeply I—we all feel for you in your trouble. I—I—I am so sorry."

"Thank you," she said simply, and after a moment's hesitation.

"I mean it sincerely. I—I did not know Captain Hammond very well, but I respected and liked him the first time we met. I shall hope that—that—it is not so serious as they fear."

"Thank you," she said again. "We are all hoping."

"Yes. I—I—" It was dreadfully hard to get words together. "I have heard so much of the captain from—"

"From Aunt Keziah? Yes, she was Nat's warmest friend."

"I know. Er—Mrs. Coffin tells me you are going away. I hope you may hear good news and soon. I shall think of you—of him—I want you to understand that I shall."

The door opened and Emeline Berry appeared on the threshold.

"Come right in, Grace," she called. "Mrs. Prince wants you to. She's ahollerin' for you to hurry up."

"Good-by," said the minister.

"Good-by. Thank you again. It was very kind of you to say this."

"No, no. I mean it."

"I know; that was why it was so kind. Good-by."

She held out her hand and he took it. He knew that his was trembling, but so, too, was hers. The hands fell apart. Grace entered the house and John Ellery went out at the gate.

That night Keziah, in the sitting room, trying to read, but finding it hard to keep her mind on the book, heard her parson pacing back and forth over the straw-matted floor of his chamber. She looked at the clock; it was nearly twelve. She shut the book and sighed. Her well-meant words of consolation had been a mistake, after all. She should not have spoken Grace Van Horne's name.

CHAPTER XVI

IN WHICH THE MINISTER BOARDS THE SAN JOSE

"Hey, Mr. Ellery!"

It was Captain Zeb Mayo who was calling. The captain sat in his antique chaise, drawn by the antique white horse, and was hailing the parsonage through a speaking trumpet formed by holding both his big hands before his mouth. The reins he had tucked between the edge of the dashboard and the whip socket. If he had thrown them on the ground he would still have been perfectly safe, with that horse.

"Mr. Ellery, ahoy!" roared Captain Zeb through his hands.

The window of Zoeth Peters's house, next door to the Regular church, was thrown up and Mrs. Peters's head, bound with a blue-and-white handkerchief in lieu of a sweeping cap, was thrust forth into the crisp March air.

"What is it, Cap'n Mayo?" screamed Mrs. Peters. "Hey?"

"Hey?" repeated Captain Zeb, peering round the chaise curtain. "Who's that?"

"It's me. Is somebody dead?"

"Who's me? Oh! No, Hettie, nobody's dead, though I'm likely to bust a blood vessel if I keep on yellin' much longer. Is the parson to home?"

"Hey?"

"Oh, heavens alive! I say is—Ha, there you be, Mr. Ellery. Mornin', Keziah."

The minister and Mrs. Coffin, the former with a napkin in his hand, had emerged from the side door of the parsonage and now came hurrying down to the gate.

"Land of Goshen!" exclaimed the captain, "you don't mean to tell me you ain't done breakfast yet, and it after seven o'clock. Why, we're thinkin' about dinner up to our house."

Keziah answered. "Yes," she said, "I shouldn't wonder. Your wife tells me, Zeb, that the only time you ain't thinkin' about dinner is when you think of breakfast or supper. We ain't so hungry here that we get up to eat in the middle of the night. What's the matter? Hettie Peters is hollerin' at you; did you know it?"

"Did I know it? Tut! tut! tut! I'd known it if I was a mile away, 'less I was paralyzed in my ears. Let her holler; 'twill do her good and keep her in practice for Come-Outer meetin'. Why, Mr. Ellery, I tell you: Em'lous Sparrow, the fish peddler, stepped up to our house a few minutes ago. He's just come down from the shanties over on the shore by the light—where the wreck was, you know—and he says there's a 'morphrodite brig anchored three or four mile off and she's flyin' colors ha'f mast and union down. They're gettin' a boat's crew together to go off to her and see what's the row. I'm goin' to drive over and I thought maybe you'd like to go along. I told the old lady—my wife, I mean—that I thought of pickin' you up and she said 'twas a good idee. Said my likin' to cruise with a parson in my old age was either a sign that I was hopeful or fearful, she didn't know which; and either way it ought to be encouraged. He, he, he! What do you say, Mr. Ellery? Want to go?"

The minister hesitated. "I'd like to," he said. "I'd like to very much. But I ought to work on my sermon this morning."

Keziah cut in here. "Cat's foot!" she sniffed. "Let your sermon go for this once, do. If it ain't long enough as it is, you can begin again when you've got to the end and preach it over again. Didama Rogers said, last circle day, that she could set still and hear you preach right over n' over. I'd give her a chance, 'specially if it did keep her still. Keepin' Didama still is good Christian work, ain't it, Zeb?"

Captain Mayo slapped his knee. "He, he, he!" he chuckled. "Cal'late you're right, Keziah."

"Indeed, I am. I believe it would be Christianity and I KNOW 'twould be work. There! there! run in and get your coat and hat, Mr. Ellery. I'll step across and ease Hettie's mind and—and lungs."

She went across the road to impart the news of the vessel in distress to the curious Mrs. Peters. A moment later the minister, having donned his hat and coat, ran down the walk and climbed into the chaise beside Captain Zeb. The white horse, stimulated into a creaky jog trot by repeated slappings of the reins and roars to "Get under way!" and "Cast off!" moved along the sandy lane.

During the drive the captain and his passenger discussed various topics of local interest, among them Captain Nat Hammond and the manner in which he might have lost his ship and his life. It was now taken for granted, in Trumet and elsewhere, that Nat was dead and would never be heard from again. The owners had given up, so Captain Zeb said, and went on to enumerate the various accidents which might have happened—typhoons, waterspouts, fires, and even attacks by Malay pirates—though, added the captain, "Gen'rally speakin', I'd ruther not bet on any pirate gettin' away with Nat Hammond's ship, if the skipper was alive and healthy. Then there's mutiny and fevers and collisions, and land knows what all. And, speakin' of trouble, what do you cal'late ails that craft we're goin' to look at now?"

They found a group on the beach discussing that very question. A few fishermen, one or two lobstermen and wreckers, and the lightkeeper were gathered on the knoll by the lighthouse. They had a spyglass, and a good-sized dory was ready for launching.

"Where is she, Noah?" asked Captain Zeb of the lightkeeper. "That her off back of the spar buoy? Let me have a squint through that glass; my eyes ain't what they used to be, when I could see a whale spout two miles t'other side of the sky line and tell how many barrels of ile he'd try out, fust look. Takes practice to keep your eyesight so's you can see round a curve like that," he added, winking at Ellery.

"She's a brigantine, Zeb," observed the keeper, handing up the spyglass. "And flyin' the British colors. Look's if she might be one of them salt boats from Turk's Islands. But what she's doin' out there, anchored, with canvas lowered and showin' distress signals in fair weather like this, is more'n any of us can make out. She wa'n't there last evenin', though, and she is there now."

"She ain't the only funny thing along shore this mornin', nuther," announced Theophilus Black, one of the fishermen. "Charlie Burgess just come down along and he says there's a ship's longboat hauled up on the beach, 'bout a mile 'n a half t'other side the mouth of the herrin' crick yonder. Oars in her and all. And she ain't no boat that b'longs round here, is she, Charlie?"

"No, Thoph, she ain't," was the reply. "Make anything out of her, cap'n?"

Captain Zeb, who had been inspecting the anchored vessel through the spyglass, lowered the latter and seemed puzzled. "Not much," he answered. "Blessed if she don't look abandoned to me. Can't see a sign of life aboard her."

"We couldn't neither," said Thoph. "We was just cal'latin' to go off to her when Charlie come and told us about the longboat. I guess likely we can go now; it's pretty nigh smooth as a pond. You'll take an oar, won't you, Noah?"

"I can't leave the light very well. My wife went over to the village last night. You and Charlie and Bill go. Want to go, too, Zeb?"

"No, I'll stay here, I guess. The old lady made me promise to keep my feet dry afore I left the house."

"You want to go, Mr. Ellery? Lots of room."

The minister was tempted. The sea always had a fascination for him and the mystery of the strange ship was appealing.

"Sure I won't be in the way?"

"No, no! 'course you won't," said Burgess. "Come right along. You set in the bow, if you don't mind gettin' sprinkled once in a while. I'll steer and Thoph and Bill'll row. That'll be enough for one dory. If we need more, we'll signal. Heave ahead."

The surf, though low for that season of the year, looked dangerous to Ellery, but his companions launched the dory with the ease which comes of experience. Burgess took the steering oar and Thoph and "Bill," the latter a lobsterman from Wellmouth Neck, bent their broad backs for the long pull. The statement concerning the pondlike smoothness of the sea was something of an exaggeration. The dory climbed wave after wave, long and green and oily, at the top of each she poised, tipped and slid down the slope. The minister, curled up in the bow on a rather uncomfortable cushion of anchor and roding, caught glimpses of the receding shore over the crests behind. One minute he looked down into the face of Burgess, holding the steering oar in place, the next the stern was high above him and he felt that he was reclining on the back of his neck. But always the shoulders of the rowers moved steadily in the short, deep strokes of the rough water oarsman, and the beach, with the white light and red-roofed house of the keeper, the group beside it, and Captain Zeb's horse and chaise, grew smaller and less distinct.

"Humph!" grunted Charlie.

"What's the matter?" asked Thoph.

The steersman, who was staring hard in the direction they were going, scowled.

"Humph!" he grunted again. "I swan to man, fellers, I believe she IS abandoned!"

"Rubbish!" panted Bill, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder. "'Course she ain't! Who'd abandon a craft such weather's this, and Province-town harbor only three hours' run or so?"

"When it comes to that," commented Burgess, "why should they anchor off here, 'stead of takin' her in by the inlet? If there's anybody aboard they ain't showed themselves yet. She might have been leakin', but she don't look it. Sets up out of water pretty well. Well, we'll know in a few minutes. Hit her up, boys!"

The rowers "hit her up" and the dory moved faster. Then Burgess, putting his hand to his mouth, hailed.

"Ship ahoy!" he roared. "Ahoy!"

No reply.

"Ahoy the brig!" bellowed Burgess. "What's the matter aboard there? All hands asleep?"

Still no answer. Thoph and Bill pulled more slowly now. Burgess nodded to them.

"Stand by!" he ordered. "Easy! Way enough! Let her run."

The dory slackened speed, turned in obedience to the steering oar, and slid under the forequarter of the anchored vessel. Ellery, looking up, saw her name in battered gilt letters above his head—the San Jose.

"Stand by, Thoph!" shouted Charlie. "S'pose you can jump and grab her forechains? Hold her steady, Bill. Now, Thoph! That's the time!"

Thoph had jumped, seized the chains, and was scrambling aboard. A moment later he appeared at the rail amidships, a rope in his hand. The dory was brought alongside and made fast; then one after the other the men in the boat climbed to the brig's deck.

"Ahoy!" yelled Burgess. "All hands on deck! tumble up, you lubbers! Humph! She is abandoned, sure and sartin."

"Yup," assented Bill. "Her boats are gone. See? Guess that explains the longboat on the beach, Charlie."

"Cal'late it does; but it don't explain why they left her. She ain't leakin' none to speak of, that's sure. Rides's light's a feather. Christmas! look at them decks; dirty hogs, whoever they was."

The decks were dirty, and the sails, sloppily furled, were dirty likewise. The brig, as she rolled and jerked at her anchor rope, was dirty—and unkempt from stem to stern. To Ellery's mind she made a lonesome picture, even under the clear, winter sky and bright sunshine.

Thoph led the way aft. The cabin companion door was open and they peered down.

"Phew!" sniffed Burgess. "She ain't no cologne bottle, is she? Well, come on below and let's see what'll we see."

The cabin was a "mess," as Bill expressed it. The floor was covered with scattered heaps of riff-raff, oilskins, coats, empty bottles, and papers. On the table a box stood, its hinged lid thrown back.

"Medicine chest," said Burgess, examining it. "And rum bottles aplenty. Somebody's been sick, I shouldn't wonder."

The minister opened the door of one of the little staterooms. The light which shone through the dirty and tightly closed "bull's-eye" window showed a tumbled bunk, the blankets soiled and streaked. The smell was stifling.

"Say, fellers," whispered Thoph, "I don't like this much myself. I'm for gettin' on deck where the air's better. Somethin's happened aboard this craft, somethin' serious."

Charlie and Bill nodded an emphatic affirmative.

"Hadn't we better look about a little more?" asked Ellery. "There's another stateroom there."

He opened the door of it as he spoke. It was, if possible, in a worse condition than the first. And the odor was even more overpowering.

"Skipper's room," observed Burgess, peeping in. "And that bunk ain't been slept in for weeks. See the mildew on them clothes. Phew! I'm fair sick to my stomach. Come out of this."

On deck, in the sunlight, they held another consultation.

"Queerest business ever I see," observed Charlie. "I never—"

"I see somethin' like it once," interrupted Bill. "Down in the Gulf 'twas. I was on the old Fishhawk. Eben Salters's dad from over to Bayport skippered her. We picked up a West Injy schooner, derelict, abandoned same as this one, but not anchored, of course. Yeller jack was the trouble aboard her and—Where you bound, Thoph?"

"Goin' to take a squint at the fo'castle," replied Theophilus, moving forward. The minister followed him.

The fo'castle hatchway was black and grim. Ellery knelt and peered down. Here there was practically no light at all and the air was fouler than that in the cabin.

"See anything, Mr. Ellery?" asked Thoph, looking over his shoulder.

"No, I don't see anything. But I thought—"

He seemed to be listening.

"What did you think?"

"Nothing. I—"

"Hold on! you ain't goin' down there, be you? I wouldn't. No tellin' what you might find. Well, all right. I ain't curious. I'll stay up here and you can report."

He stepped over and leaned against the rail. Bill came across the deck and joined him.

"Where's Charlie?" asked Thoph.

"Gone back to the cabin," was the answer. "Thought likely he might find some of her papers or somethin' to put us on the track. I told him to heave ahead; I didn't want no part of it. Too much like that yeller-jack schooner to suit me. What's become of the parson?"

Thoph pointed to the open hatch.

"Down yonder, explorin' the fo'castle," he replied. "He can have the job, for all me. Phew! Say, Bill, what IS this we've struck, anyhow?"

Ellery descended the almost perpendicular ladder gingerly, holding on with both hands. At its foot he stopped and tried to accustom his eyes to the darkness.

A room perhaps ten feet long, so much he could make out. The floor strewn, like that of the cabin, with heaps of clothing and odds and ends. More shapes of clothes hanging up and swaying with the roll of the brig. A little window high up at the end, black with dirt. And cavities, bunks in rows, along the walls. A horrible hole.

He took a step toward the center of the room, bending his head to avoid hitting the fo'castle lantern. Then in one of the bunks something stirred, something alive. He started violently, controlled himself with an effort, and stumbled toward the sound.

"What is it?" he whispered. "Who is it? Is anyone there?"

A groan answered him. Then a voice, weak and quavering, said:

"Gimme a drink! Gimme a drink! Can't none of you God-forsaken devils give me a drink?"

He stooped over the bunk. A man was lying in it, crumpled into a dreadful heap. He stooped lower, looked, and saw the man's face.

There was a shout from the deck, or, rather, a yell. Then more yells and the sound of running feet.

"Mr. Ellery!" screamed Burgess, at the hatchway. "Mr. Ellery, for the Almighty's sake, come up here! Come out of that this minute. Quick!"

The minister knew what was coming, was sure of it as he stepped to the foot of the ladder, had known it the instant he saw that face.

"Mr. Ellery!" shrieked Burgess. "Mr. Ellery, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," answered the minister, slowly. He was fighting with all his might to keep his nerves under control. His impulse was to leap up those steps, rush across that deck, spring into the dory and row, anywhere to get away from the horror of that forecastle.

"Come up!" called Burgess. "Hurry! It's the smallpox! The darned hooker's rotten with it. For God sakes, come quick!"

He ran to the rail, yelling order to Bill and Thoph, who were frantically busy with the dory. Ellery began to climb the ladder. His head emerged into the clean, sweet air blowing across the deck. He drew a breath to the very bottom of his lungs.

Then from behind and below him came the voice again.

"Gimme a drink!" it wailed. "Gimme a drink of water. Ain't one of you cussed swabs got decency enough to fetch me a drink? I'm dyin' for a drink, I tell you. I'm dyin'!"

The minister stood still, his feet on the ladder. The three men by the rail were working like mad, their faces livid under the sunburn and their hands trembling. They pushed each other about and swore. They were not cowards, either. Ellery knew them well enough to know that. Burgess had, that very winter, pulled a skiff through broken ice in the face of a wicked no'theaster to rescue an old neighbor whose dory had been capsized in the bay while he was hauling lobster pots. But now Burgess was as scared as the rest.

Thoph and Bill sprang over the rail into the boat. Burgess turned and beckoned to Ellery.

"Come on!" he called. "What are you waitin' for?"

The minister remained where he was.

"Are you sure—" he faltered.

"Sure! Blast it all! I found the log. It ain't been kept for a fortni't, but there's enough. It's smallpox, I tell you. Two men died of it three weeks ago. The skipper died right afterwards. The mate—No wonder them that was left run away as soon as they sighted land. Come on! Do you want to die, too?"

From the poison pit at the foot of the ladder the man in the bunk called once more.

"Water!" he screeched. "Water! Are you goin' to leave me, you d—n cowards?"

"For Heaven sakes!" cried Burgess, clutching the rail, "what's that?"

Ellery answered him. "It's one of them," he said, and his voice sounded odd in his own ears. "It's one of the crew."

"One of the—Down THERE? Has he—"

"Yes, he has."

"Help! help!" screamed the voice shrilly. "Are you goin' to leave me to die all alone? He-elp!"

The minister turned. "Hush!" he called, in answer to the voice, "hush! I'll bring you water in a minute. Burgess," he added, "you and the rest go ashore. I shall stay."

"You'll stay? You'll STAY? With THAT? You're crazy as a loon. Don't be a fool, man! Come on! We'll send the doctor and somebody else—some one that's had it, maybe, or ain't afraid. I am and I'm goin'. Don't be a fool."

Thoph, from the dory, shouted to know what was the matter. Ellery climbed the ladder to the deck and walked over to the rail. As he approached, Burgess fell back a few feet.

"Thoph," said the minister, addressing the pair in the dory, "there is a sick man down in the forecastle. He has been alone there for hours, I suppose, certainly since his shipmates ran away. If he is left longer without help, he will surely die. Some one must stay with him. You and the rest row ashore and get the doctor and whoever else you can. I'll stay here till they come."

Thoph and his companions set up a storm of protest. It was foolish, it was crazy, the man would die anyhow, and so on. They begged the minister to come with them. But he was firm.

"Don't stop to argue," he urged. "Hurry and get the doctor."

"Come on, Charlie," ordered Bill. "No use talkin' to him, he's set. Come on! I won't stay alongside this craft another minute for nobody. If you be comin', come."

Burgess, still protesting, clambered over the rail. The dory swung clear of the brig. The rowers settled themselves for the stroke.

"Better change your mind, Mr. Ellery," pleaded Charlie. "I hate to leave you this way. It seems mean, but I'm a married man with children, like the rest of us here, and I can't take no risks. Better come, too. No? Well, we'll send help quick as the Lord'll let us. By the Almighty!" he added, in a sudden burst, "you've got more spunk than I have—yes, or anybody I ever come across. I'll say that for you, if you are a parson. Give way, fellers."

The oars dipped, bent, and the dory moved off. The sound of the creaking thole pins shot a chill through Ellery's veins. His knees shook, and involuntarily a cry for them to come back rose to his lips. But he choked it down and waved his hand in farewell. Then, not trusting himself to look longer at the receding boat, he turned on his heel and walked toward the forecastle.

The water butts stood amidships, not far from the open door of the galley. Entering the latter he found an empty saucepan. This he filled from the cask, and then, with it in his hand, turned toward the black hatchway. Here was the greatest test of his courage. To descend that ladder, approach that bunk, and touch the terrible creature in it, these were the tasks he had set himself to do, but could he?

Vaccination in those days was by no means the universal custom that it now is. And smallpox, even now, is a disease the name of which strikes panic to a community. The minister had been vaccinated when he was a child, but that was—so it seemed to him—a very long time ago. And that forecastle was so saturated with the plague that to enter it meant almost certain infection. He had stayed aboard the brig because the pitiful call for help had made leaving a cowardly impossibility. Now, face to face, and in cold blood, with the alternative, it seemed neither so cowardly or impossible. The man would die anyhow, so Thoph had said; was there any good reason why he should risk dying, too, and dying in that way?

He thought of a great many things and of many people as he stood by the hatchway, waiting; among others, he thought of his housekeeper, Keziah Coffin. And, somehow, the thought of her, of her pluck, and her self-sacrifice, were the very inspirations he needed. "It's the duty that's been laid on me," Keziah had said, "and it's a hard one, but I don't run away from it." He began to descend the ladder.

The sick man was raving in delirium when he reached him, but the sound of the water lapping the sides of the saucepan brought him to himself. He seized Ellery by the arm and drank and drank. When at last he desisted, the pan was half empty.

The minister laid him gently back in the bunk and stepped to the foot of the ladder for breath. This made him think of the necessity for air in the place and he remembered the little window. It was tightly closed and rusted fast. He went up to the deck, found a marlin spike, and, returning, broke the glass. A sharp, cold draught swept through the forecastle, stirring the garments hanging on the nails.

An hour later, two dories bumped against the side of the San Jose. Men, talking in low tones, climbed over the rail. Burgess was one of them; ashamed of his panic, he had returned to assist the others in bringing the brigantine into a safer anchorage by the inlet.

Dr. Parker, very grave but businesslike, reached the deck among the first.

"Mr. Ellery," he shouted, "where are you?"

The minister's head and shoulders appeared at the forecastle companion. "Here I am, doctor," he said. "Will you come down?"

The doctor made no answer in words, but he hurried briskly across the deck. One man, Ebenezer Capen, an old fisherman and ex-whaler from East Trumet, started to follow him, but he was the only one. The others waited, with scared faces, by the rail.

"Get her under way and inshore as soon as you can," ordered Dr. Parker. "Ebenezer, you can help. If I need you below, I'll call."

The minister backed down the ladder and the doctor followed him. Parker bent over the bunk for a few moments in silence.

"He's pretty bad," he muttered. "Mighty little chance. Heavens, what a den! Who broke that window?"

"I did," replied Ellery. "The air down here was dreadful."

The doctor nodded approvingly. "I guess so," he said. "It's bad enough now. We've got to get this poor fellow out of here as soon as we can or he'll die before to-morrow. Mr. Ellery," he added sharply, "what made you do this? Don't you realize the risk you've run?"

"Some one had to do it. You are running the same risk."

"Not just the same, and, besides, it's my business. Why didn't you let some one else, some one we could spare—Humph! Confound it, man! didn't you know any better? Weren't you afraid?"

His tone rasped Ellery's shaken nerves.

"Of course I was," he snapped irritably. "I'm not an idiot."

"Humph! Well, all right; I beg your pardon. But you oughtn't to have done it. Now you'll have to be quarantined. And who in thunder I can get to stay with me in this case is more than I know. Just say smallpox to this town and it goes to pieces like a smashed egg. Old Eb Capen will help, for he's had it, but it needs more than one."

"Where are you going to take—him?" pointing to the moaning occupant of the bunk.

"To one of the empty fish shanties on the beach. There are beds there, such as they are, and the place is secluded. We can burn it down when the fuss is over."

"Then why can't I stay? I shall have to be quarantined, I know that. Let me be the other nurse. Why should anyone else run the risk? I HAVE run it. I'll stay."

Dr. Parker looked at him. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Well! I must say, young man, that you've got—Humph! All right, Mr. Ellery; I'm much obliged."

CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH EBENEZER CAPEN IS SURPRISED

Before sunset that afternoon the San Jose was anchored behind the point by the inlet. The fishing boats changed moorings and moved farther up, for not a single one of their owners would trust himself within a hundred yards of the stricken brigantine. As soon as the anchors were dropped, the volunteer crew was over side and away, each of its members to receive a scolding from his family for taking such a risk and to have his garments sulphur-smoked or buried. Charlie Burgess, whose wife was something of a Tartar, observed ruefully that he "didn't take no comfort 'round home nowadays; between the smell of brimstone and the jawin's 'twas the hereafter ahead of time."

The largest of the beach shanties, one which stood by itself a quarter of a mile from the light, was hurriedly prepared for use as a pesthouse and the sick sailor was carried there on an improvised stretcher. Dr. Parker and Ellery lifted him from his berth and, assisted by old Ebenezer Capen, got him up to the deck and lowered him into the dory. Ebenezer rowed the trio to the beach and the rest of the journey was comparatively easy.

The shanty had three rooms, one of which was given up to the patient, one used as a living room, and, in the third, Capen and the minister were to sleep. Mattresses were procured, kind-hearted and sympathizing townspeople donated cast-off tables and chairs, and the building was made as comfortable as it could be, under the circumstances. Sign boards, warning strangers to keep away, were erected, and in addition to them, the Trumet selectmen ordered ropes stretched across the lane on both sides of the shanty. But ropes and signs were superfluous. Trumet in general was in a blue funk and had no desire to approach within a mile of the locality. Even the driver of the grocery cart, when he left the day's supply of provisions, pushed the packages under the ropes, yelled a hurried "Here you be!" and, whipping up his horse, departed at a rattling gallop.

The village sat up nights to discuss the affair and every day brought a new sensation. The survivors of the San Jose's crew, a wretched, panic-stricken quartette of mulattos and Portuguese, were apprehended on the outskirts of Denboro, the town below Trumet on the bay side, and were promptly sequestered and fumigated, pending shipment to the hospital at Boston. Their story was short but grewsome. The brigantine was not a Turks Islands boat, but a coaster from Jamaica. She had sailed with a small cargo for Savannah. Two days out and the smallpox made its appearance on board. The sufferer, a negro foremast hand, died. Then another sailor was seized and also died. The skipper, who was the owner, was the next victim, and the vessel was in a state of demoralization which the mate, an Englishman named Bradford, could not overcome. Then followed days and nights of calm and terrible heat, of pestilence and all but mutiny. The mate himself died. There was no one left who understood navigation. At last came a southeast gale and the San Jose drove before it. Fair weather found her abreast the Cape. The survivors ran her in after dark, anchored, and reached shore in the longboat. The sick man whom they had left in the forecastle was a new hand who had shipped at Kingston. His name was Murphy, they believed. They had left him because he was sure to die, like the others, and, besides, they knew some one would see the distress signals and investigate. That was all, yes. Santa Maria! was it not enough?

This tale was a delicious tidbit for Didama and the "daily advertisers," but, after all, it was a mere side dish compared to Mr. Ellery's astonishing behavior. That he, the minister of the Regular church, should risk his life, risk dying of the smallpox, to help a stranger and a common sailor, was incomprehensible. Didama, at least, could not understand it, and said so. "My soul and body!" she exclaimed, with uplifted hands. "I wouldn't go nigh my own grandfather if he had the smallpox, let alone settin' up with a strange critter that I didn't know from Adam's cat. And a minister doin' it! He ought to consider the congregation, if he done nothin' else. Ain't we more important than a common water rat that, even when he's dyin', swears, so I hear tell, like a ship's poll parrot? I never heard of such foolishness. It beats ME!"

It "beat" a good many who, like the Widow Rogers, could not understand self-sacrifice. But there were more, and they the majority of Trumet's intelligent people, who understood and appreciated. Dr. Parker, a man with a reputation for dangerously liberal views concerning religious matters and an infrequent attendant at church, was enthusiastic and prodigal of praise.

"By George!" vowed the doctor. "That's MY kind of Christianity. That's the kind of parson I can tie to. I'm for John Ellery after this, first, last, and all the time. And if he don't get the smallpox and die, and if he does live to preach in the Regular church, you'll see me in one of the front pews every Sunday. That's what I think of him. Everybody else ran away and I don't blame 'em much. But he stayed. Yes, sir, by George! he stayed. 'Somebody had to do it,' says he. I take off my hat to that young fellow."

Captain Zeb Mayo went about cheering for his parson. Mrs. Mayo cooked delicacies to be pushed under the ropes for the minister's consumption. The parish committee, at a special session, voted an increase of salary and ordered a weekly service of prayer for the safe delivery of their young leader from danger. Even Captain Elkanah did not try to oppose the general opinion; "although I cannot but feel," he said, "that Mr. Ellery's course was rash and that he should have considered us and our interest in his welfare before—"

"Dum it all!" roared Captain Zeb, jumping to his feet and interrupting, "he didn't consider himself, did he? and ain't he as important TO himself as you, Elkanah Daniels, or anybody else in this meetin' house? Bah! don't let's have no more talk like that or I'll say somethin' that won't be fit to put in the minutes."

Even at Come-Outers' meeting, when Ezekiel Bassett hinted at a "just punishment fallin' on the head of the leader of the Pharisees," Thoph Black rose and defended Ellery.

Keziah Coffin was, perhaps, the one person most disturbed by her parson's heroism. She would have gone to the shanty immediately had not Dr. Parker prevented. Even as it was, she did go as far as the ropes, but there she was warded off by Ebenezer until Ellery came running out and bade her come no nearer.

"But you shan't stay here, Mr. Ellery," vowed Keziah. "Or, if you do, I'll stay, too. I ain't afraid of smallpox."

"I am," confessed the minister, "and I'm not going to let anyone I care for expose themselves to it unnecessarily. If you try to come in here I shall"—he smiled—"well, Capen and I will put you off the premises by force. There!"

Keziah smiled, too, in spite of herself. "Maybe you'd have your hands full," she said. "O John, what in the world made you do this thing? It's dreadful. I shan't sleep a wink, thinkin' of you. I just must come here and help."

"No, you mustn't. You can come as far as the—the dead line once in a while, if Captain Mayo will drive you over, but that's all. I'm all right. Don't worry about me. I'm feeling tiptop and I'm not going to be sick. Now go home and make me some of that—some of those puddings of yours. We can use them to advantage, can't we, Capen?"

"Bet yer!" replied Ebenezer with enthusiasm. Keziah, after more expostulation, went back to the parsonage, where the puddings were made and seasoned with tears and fervent prayers. She wrote to Grace and told her the news of the San Jose, but she said nothing of the minister's part in it. "Poor thing!" sighed Keziah, "she's bearin' enough already. Her back ain't as strong as mine, maybe, and mine's most crackin'. Well, let it crack for good and all; I don't know but that's the easiest way out."

The sick sailor grew no better. Days and nights passed and he raved and moaned or lay in a stupor. Ebenezer acted as day nurse while Ellery slept, and, at night, the minister, being younger, went on watch. The doctor came frequently, but said there was no hope. A question of time only, and a short time, he said.

Capen occupied his mind with speculations concerning the patient.

"Do you know, parson," he said, "seem's if I'd seen the feller somewheres afore. 'Course I never have, but when I used to go whalin' v'yages I cruised from one end of creation to t'other, pretty nigh, and I MIGHT have met him. However, his own folks wouldn't know him now, would they? so I cal'late I'm just gettin' foolish in my old age. Said his name's Murphy, them ha'f-breeds did, didn't they? I know better'n that."

"How do you know?" asked Ellery, idly listening.

"'Cause when he's floppin' round on the bed, out of his head, he sings out all kinds of stuff. A good deal of it's plain cussin', but there's times when he talks respectable and once I heard him say 'darn' and another time 'I cal'late.' Now no Irishman says THAT. That's Yankee, that is."

"Well, he ought to know his own name."

"Prob'ly he does—or used to—but 'most likely he don't want nobody else to know it. That's why he said 'twas Murphy and, bein' as he DID say it, I know 'tain't it. See my argument, don't you, Mr. Ellery?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"Um—hm! Why, land sakes, names don't mean nothin' with seafarin' men. I've seen the time when I had more names—Humph! Looks kind of squally off to the east'ard, don't it?"

That night the sick man was much worse. His ravings were incessant. The minister, sitting in his chair in the living room, by the cook stove, could hear the steady stream of shouts, oaths, and muttered fragments of dialogue with imaginary persons. Sympathy for the sufferer he felt, of course, and yet he, as well as Dr. Parker and old Capen, had heard enough to realize that the world would be none the worse for losing this particular specimen of humanity. The fellow had undoubtedly lived a hard life, among the roughest of companions afloat and ashore. Even Ebenezer, who by his own confession, was far from being a saint, exclaimed disgustedly at the close of a day's watching by the sick bed: "Phew! I feel's if I'd been visiting state's prison. Let me set out doors a spell and listen to the surf. It's clean, anyhow, and that critter's talk makes me want to give my brains a bath."

The wooden clock, loaned by Mrs. Parker, the doctor's wife, ticked steadily, although a half hour slow. Ellery, glancing at it to see if the time had come for giving medicine, suddenly noticed how loud its ticking sounded. Wondering at this, he was aware there was no other sound in the house. He rose and looked in at the door of the adjoining room. The patient had ceased to rave and was lying quiet on the bed.

The minister tiptoed over to look at him. And, as he did so, the man opened his eyes.

"Halloo!" he said faintly. "Who are you?"

Ellery, startled, made no answer.

"Who are you?" demanded the man again. Then, with an oath, he repeated the question, adding: "What place is this? This ain't the fo'castle. Where am I?"

"You're ashore. You've been sick. Don't try to move."

"Sick? Humph! Sick? 'Course I been sick. Don't I know it? The d—n cowards run off and left me; blast their eyes! I'll fix 'em for it one of these days, you hear—"

"Sshh!"

"Hush up yourself. Where am I?"

"You're ashore. On Cape Cod. At Trumet."

"Trumet! TRUMET!"

He was struggling to raise himself on his elbow. Ellery was obliged to use force to hold him down.

"Hush! hush!" pleaded the minister, "you mustn't try to—"

"Trumet! I ain't. You're lyin'. Trumet! Good God! Who brought me here? Did she—Is she—"

He struggled again. Then his strength and his reason left him simultaneously and the delirium returned. He began to shout a name, a name that caused Ellery to stand upright and step back from the bed, scarcely believing his ears.

All the rest of that night the man on the bed raved and muttered, but of people and places and happenings which he had not mentioned before. And the minister, listening intently to every word, caught himself wondering if he also was not losing his mind.

When the morning came, Ebenezer Capen was awakened by a shake to find John Ellery standing over him.

"Capen," whispered the minister, "Capen, get up. I must talk with you."

Ebenezer was indignant.

"Judas priest!" he exclaimed; "why don't you scare a feller to death, comin' and yankin' him out of bed by the back hair?" Then, being more wide awake, he added: "What's the row? Worse, is he? He ain't—"

"No. But I've got to talk with you. You used to be a whaler, I know. Were you acquainted in New Bedford?"

"Sartin. Was a time when I could have located every stick in it, pretty nigh, by the smell, if you'd set me down side of 'em blindfold."

"Did you ever know anyone named—" He finished the sentence.

"Sure and sartin, I did. Why?"

"Did you know him well?"

"Well's I wanted to. Pretty decent feller one time, but a fast goer, and went downhill like a young one's sled, when he got started. His folks had money, that was the trouble with him. Why, 'course I knew him! He married—"

"I know. Now, listen."

Ellery went on talking rapidly and with great earnestness. Ebenezer listened, at first silently, then breaking in with ejaculations and grunts of astonishment. He sat up on the edge of the bed.

"Rubbish!" he cried at last, "why, 'tain't possible! The feller's dead as Methusalem's grandmarm. I remember how it happened and—"

"It wasn't true. That much I know. I KNOW, I tell you."

He went on to explain why he knew. Capen's astonishment grew.

"Judas priest!" he exclaimed again. "That would explain why I thought I'd seen—There! heave ahead. I've got to see. But it's a mistake. I don't believe it."

The pair entered the sick room. The sailor lay in a stupor. His breathing was rapid, but faint. Capen bent over him and gently moved the bandage on his face. For a full minute he gazed steadily. Then he stood erect, drew a big red hand across his forehead, and moved slowly back to the living room.

"Well?" asked Ellery eagerly.

Ebenezer sat down in the rocker. "Judas priest!" he said for the third time. "Don't talk to ME! When it comes my time they'll have to prove I'm dead. I won't believe it till they do. Ju-das PRIEST!"

"Then you recognize him?"

The old man nodded solemnly.

"Yup," he said, "it's him. Mr. Ellery, what are you goin' to do about it?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I must go somewhere by myself and think. I don't know WHAT to do."

The minister declined to wait for breakfast. He said he was not hungry. Leaving Ebenezer to put on the coffeepot and take up his duties as day nurse, Ellery walked off along the beach. The "dead line" prevented his going very far, but he sat down in the lee of a high dune and thought until his head ached. What should he do? What was best for him to do?

He heard the rattle of the doctor's chaise and the voices of Ebenezer and Parker in conversation. He did not move, but remained where he was, thinking, thinking. By and by he heard Capen calling his name.

"Mr. Ellery!" shouted Ebenezer. "Mr. Ellery, where be you?"

"Here!" replied the minister.

The old man came scrambling over the sand. He was panting and much excited.

"Mr. Ellery!" he cried, "Mr. Ellery! it's settled for us—one part of it, anyhow. He's slipped his cable."

"What?" The minister sprang up.

"Yup. He must have died just a little while after you left and after I gave him his medicine. I thought he looked kind of queer then. And when the doctor came we went in together and he was dead. Yes, sir, dead."

"Dead!"

"Um—hm. No doubt of it; it's for good this time. Mr. Ellery, what shall we do? Shall I tell Dr. Parker?"

Ellery considered for a moment. "No," he said slowly. "No, Capen, don't tell anyone. I can't see why they need ever know that he hasn't been dead for years, as they supposed. Promise me to keep it a secret. I'll tell—her—myself, later on. Now promise me; I trust you."

"Land sakes, yes! I'll promise, if you want me to. I'm a widower man, so there'll be nobody to coax it out of me. I guess you're right, cal'late you be. What folks don't know they can't lie about, can they? and that's good for your business—meanin' nothin' disreverent. I'll promise, Mr. Ellery; I'll swear to it. Now come on back to the shanty. The doctor wants you."

The next day the body of "Murphy," foremast hand on the San Jose, was buried in the corner of the Regular graveyard, near those who were drowned in the wreck of that winter. There was no funeral, of course. The minister said a prayer at the shanty, and that was all. Ebenezer drove the wagon which was used as hearse for the occasion, and filled in the grave himself. So great was the fear of the terrible smallpox that the sexton would not perform even that service for its victim.

Capen remained at the shanty another week. Then, as the minister showed no symptoms of having contracted the disease and insisted that he needed no companion, Ebenezer departed to take up his fishing once more. The old man was provided with a new suit of clothes, those he had worn being burned, and having been, to his huge disgust, fumigated until, as he said, he couldn't smell himself without thinking of a match box, went away. The room which the dead sailor had occupied was emptied and sealed tight. The San Jose was to stay at her anchorage a while longer. Then, when all danger was past, she was to be towed to Boston and sold at auction for the benefit of the heirs of her dead skipper and owner.

Ellery himself was most urgent in the decision that he should not go back to the parsonage and his church just yet. Better to wait until he was sure, he said, and Dr. Parker agreed. "I'd be willing to bet that you are all right," declared the latter, "but I know Trumet, and if I SHOULD let you go and you did develop even the tail end of a case of varioloid—well, 'twould be the everlasting climax for you and me in this county."

Staying alone was not unpleasant, in a way. The "dead line" still remained, of course, and callers did not attempt to pass it, but they came more frequently and held lengthy conversations at a respectful distance. Ellery did his own cooking, what little there was to do, but so many good things were pushed under the ropes that he was in a fair way to develop weight and indigestion. Captain Zeb Mayo drove down at least twice a week and usually brought Mrs. Coffin with him. From them and from the doctor the prisoner learned the village news. Once Captain Elkanah and Annabel came, and the young lady's gushing praise of the minister's "heroism" made its recipient almost sorry he had ever heard of the San Jose.

Dr. Parker told him of Grace Van Horne's return to the village. She had come back, so the doctor said, the day before, and was to live at the tavern for a while, at least. Yes, he guessed even she had given up hope of Captain Nat now.

"And say," went on Parker, "how are you feeling?"

"Pretty well, thank you," replied the minister. "I seem to be rather tired and good for nothing. More so than I was during the worst of it."

"No wonder. A chap can't go through what you did and not feel some reaction. I expected that. Don't get cold, that's all. But what I want to know is whether you think I could leave you for a couple of days? The Ostable County Medical Society meets at Hyannis to-morrow and I had promised myself to take it in this year. But I don't want to leave you, if you need me."

Ellery insisted that he did not need anyone, was getting along finely, and would not hear of his friend's missing the medical society's meeting. So the physician went.

"Good-by," he called as he drove off. "I guess your term is pretty nearly over. I shall let you out of jail inside of four or five days, if you behave yourself."

This should have been cheering news, but, somehow, John Ellery did not feel cheerful that afternoon. The tired feeling he had spoken of so lightly was worse than he had described it, and he was despondent, for no particular reason. That night he slept miserably and awoke with a chill to find a cold, pouring rain beating against the windows of the shanty.

He could not eat and he could not keep warm, even with the cook-stove top red hot and a blanket over his shoulders. By noon the chill had gone and he was blazing with fever. Still the rain and the wind, and no visitors at the ropes, not even the light-keeper.

He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep, but though he dozed a bit, woke always with a start and either a chill or fever fit. His head began to ache violently. And then, in the lonesomeness and misery, fear began to take hold of him.

He remembered the symptoms the doctor had warned him against, headache, fever, and all the rest. He felt his wrists and arms and began to imagine that beneath the skin were the little bunches, like small shot, that were the certain indications. Then he remembered how that other man had looked, how he had died. Was he to look that way and die like that? And he was all alone, they had left him alone.

Night came. The rain had ceased and stars were shining clear. Inside the shanty the minister tossed on the bed, or staggered back and forth about the two rooms. He wondered what the time might be; then he did not care. He was alone. The smallpox had him in its grip. He was alone and he was going to die. Why didn't some one come? Where was Mrs. Coffin? And Grace? She was somewhere near him—Parker had said so—and he must see her before he died. He called her name over and over again.

The wind felt cold on his forehead. He stumbled amidst the beach grass. What was this thing across his path? A rope, apparently, but why should there be ropes in that house? There had never been any before. He climbed over it and it was a climb of hundreds of feet and the height made him giddy. That was a house, another house, not the one he had been living in. And there were lights all about. Perhaps one of them was the light at the parsonage. And a big bell was booming. That was his church bell and he would be late for the meeting.

Some one was speaking to him. He knew the voice. He had known it always and would know it forever. It was the voice he wanted to hear. "Grace!" he called. "Grace! I want you. Don't go! Don't go! Grace! oh, my dear! don't go!"

Then the voice had gone. No, it had not gone. It was still there and he heard it speaking to him, begging him to listen, pleading with him to go somewhere, go back, back to something or other. And there was an arm about his waist and some one was leading him, helping him. He broke down and cried childishly and some one cried with him.

Early the next morning, just as day was breaking, a buggy, the horse which drew it galloping, rocked and bumped down the lighthouse lane. Dr. Parker, his brows drawn together and his lips set with anxiety, was driving. He had been roused from sleep in the hotel at Hyannis by a boy with a telegram. "Come quick," it read. "Mr. Ellery sick." The sender was Noah Ellis, the lightkeeper. The doctor had hired a fast horse, ridden at top speed to Bayport, gotten a fresh horse there and hurried on. He stopped at his own house but a moment, merely to rouse his wife and ask her if there was any fresh news. But she had not even heard of the minister's seizure.

"My soul, Will!" she cried, "you don't think it's the smallpox, do you?"

"Lord knows! I'm afraid so," groaned her husband. "WHAT made me leave him? I ought to have known better. If that boy dies, I'll never draw another easy breath."

He rushed out, sprang into the buggy, and drove on. At the ropes, early as it was, he found a small group waiting and gazing at the shanty. The lightkeeper was there and two or three other men. They were talking earnestly.

"How is he, Noah?" demanded the doctor, jumping to the ground.

"I don't know, doc," replied Ellis. "I ain't heard sence last night when I telegraphed you."

"Haven't heard? What do you mean by that? Haven't you been with him?"

"No-o," was the rather sheepish reply. "You see, I—I wanted to, but my wife's awful scart I'll catch it and—"

"The devil!" Dr. Parker swore impatiently. "Who is with him then? You haven't left him alone, have you?"

"No-o," Noah hesitated once more. "No-o, he ain't alone. She's there."

"She? Who? Keziah Coffin?"

"I don't cal'late Keziah's heard it yet. We was waitin' for you 'fore we said much to anybody. But she's there—the—the one that found him. You see, he was out of his head and wanderin' up the lane 'most to the main road and she'd been callin' on Keziah and when she come away from the parsonage she heard him hollerin' and goin' on and—"

"Who did?"

"Why"—the lightkeeper glanced at his companions—"why, doc, 'twas Grace Van Horne. And she fetched him back to the shanty and then come and got me to telegraph you."

"Grace Van Horne! Grace Van—Do you mean to say she is there with him NOW?"

"Yes. She wouldn't leave him. She seemed 'most as crazy's he was. My wife and me, we—"

But Parker did not wait to hear the rest. He ran at full speed to the door of the shanty. Grace herself opened it.

"How is he?" demanded the doctor.

"I think he seems a little easier; at any rate, he's not delirious. He's in there. Oh, I'm so thankful you've come."

"Is that the doctor?" called Ellery weakly from the next room. "Is it?"

"Yes," replied Parker, throwing off his coat and hat. "Coming, Mr. Ellery."

"For God's sake, doctor, send her away. Don't let her stay. Make her go. Make her GO! I've got the smallpox and if she stays she will die. Don't you understand? she MUST go."

"Hush, John," said Grace soothingly. "Hush, dear."

Dr. Parker stopped short and looked at her. She returned the look, but without the slightest semblance of self-consciousness or embarrassment. She did not realize that she had said anything unusual, which must sound inexplicably strange to him. Her thoughts were centered in that adjoining room and she wondered why he delayed.

"Well?" she asked impatiently. "What is it? Why do you wait?"

The doctor did not answer. However, he waited no longer, but hurried in to his new patient.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH KEZIAH DECIDES TO FIGHT

The news was flying from house to house along the main road. Breakfasts were interrupted as some neighbor rushed in to tell the story which another neighbor had brought to him or her. Mr. Ellery was very sick and it was feared he had the smallpox, that was what Mrs. Parker, the doctor's wife, told those who lived near her. By the time the Corners heard of it the tale had grown until the minister was said to be dying. And when it reached Gaius Winslow's home at the upper end of the town he was reported dead. This was denied, upon investigation, but soon another rumor grew and spread; Grace Van Horne was with him, had taken him back to the shanty, and insisted upon staying there until the doctor came. Facing that dreadful disease and—It was wonderful—and queer.

At the Danielses' house the servant girl rushed into the dining room to serve the toast and the story at one swoop. Captain Elkanah's dignity deserted him for an instant and his egg spoon jingled to the floor. Annabel's face turned a dull red. Her eyes flashed sparks.

"Pa!" she cried, "I—I—if you don't do something now I'll never—"

Her father shook his head warningly. "Debby," he said to the maid, "you needn't wait."

Debby departed reluctantly. After the kitchen door had closed, Captain Elkanah said: "My dear, we mustn't be too hasty in this matter. Remember, Mr. Ellery is very sick. As for—for the Van Horne girl, we haven't heard the whole truth yet. She may not be there at all, or it may be just an accident—"

"Accident! Pa, you make me boil. Accident! Accidents like that don't happen. If you let her stay there, or if—Oh, to think of it! And we were calling him a hero and—and everything! Hero! he stayed there just so she might—"

"Hush! hush, child!"

"I shan't hush. Pa, are you going to let him disgrace himself with HER?"

"No, no. Probably there ain't any idea of his marrying her. If there is—"

"If there is you put him out of the church and out of this town. And as for HER—O-oh! And we've been having him here at dinner and—and I have—Oh, I shall die! I wish I WAS dead!"

Then followed hysterics and agony, greedily listened to by Debby, whose ear was at the crack of the door. Captain Elkanah soothed and pleaded and tried to pacify. It ended by his promising to investigate and, if necessary, take steps 'immejitly.'

Lavinia Pepper sprung the mine on her brother. Kyan was horrified. He had grown to be one of Ellery's most devoted worshipers.

"Smallpox!" he groaned. "The minister got the smallpox. Oh! that's turrible."

"Ain't it?" observed his sister, also horrified, but rather relishing the horror. "And if it hadn't been for Gracie Van Horne—"

"WHAT?"

"What's the matter with you? I say, if Gracie Van Horne hadn't happened to meet him, wanderin' around, crazy as a coot, and toted him back—"

"Gracie—Van—Horne! Godfreys mighty! She—she met him? Where? Down to Peters's grove, was it?"

"Peters's grove! No. What on earth made you think 'twas there? She'd been visitin' Keziah Coffin at the parsonage, and when she come out on the main road she heard him aravin' down the lane. Must have passed right by this house and we never heard him. I never see such a dead man as you be when you're asleep. You don't SOUND dead, I'll say that for you, but nothin' wakes you up."

"Why, Laviny! you never woke up yourself."

"That's right, lay it onto me. I expected you would; it's just like you. But why in time did you think Grace met the minister way down to Peters's grove? That's the most loony notion ever I heard, even from you. What made you think of it?"

"Nothin', nothin'. I guess I WAS loony, maybe. Dear! dear! dear! have you heard how's he's gettin' on? Is he took bad?"

"I ain't heard nothin' yet, nobody has. But see here, 'Bish Pepper, you act funny to me. I want to know more about that Peters's grove notion. WHY did you say it?"

Kyan wriggled upon the rack and dodged and squirmed for the next twenty minutes. He tried his best to keep the fateful secret, but he admitted too much, or not enough, and his sister kept up the cross-examination. At the end of the session she was still unsatisfied, but she was on the scent and her brother knew it. He fled to the woodshed and there punctuated his morning task of kindling chopping with groans and awful forebodings.

One of the very first to hear of the minister's illness was Keziah Coffin. Mrs. Parker told her and Keziah started for the beach before the tale of Grace's part in the night's happenings reached the village. She did not wait for a conveyance, hardly waited to throw a shawl over her shoulders, but began to cover the three miles on foot. She had walked nearly two thirds of the distance when Captain Zeb Mayo overtook her and gave her a seat in his chaise.

They said little during the drive, the shock and anxiety forbidding conversation. At the ropes was the same group, larger now, and Dr. Parker's horse was hitched to one of the posts.

"You can't go in, Mrs. Coffin," said Thoph Black. "The doctor give us his orders not to let nobody get by. I guess nobody wants to, but all the same—"

Keziah paid not the slightest attention to Mr. Black. She stooped beneath his arm, under the rope and was on her way to the shanty before they realized her intention. Captain Zeb roared a command for her to return, but she kept on. No one followed, not even the captain. Mrs. Mayo had strictly forbidden his passing the dead line.

Keziah opened the door and entered the little building. The living room was empty, but at the sound of her step some one came from the room adjoining. That some one was Grace.

"Aunt Keziah!" she cried. "What did you come here for? Why did you?"

"Gracie!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "You?—YOU?"

Dr. Parker appeared, holding up a hand for silence.

"Hush!" he cried. "He's quiet now and I think he will sleep. Don't talk here. Go outside, if you must talk—and I suppose you must."

Grace led the way. Fortunately, the door was on the side not visible from the spot where Captain Zeb and the rest were standing. Keziah, bewildered and amazed at the girl's presence, followed dumbly.

"Now, auntie," whispered Grace, turning to her, "you want to know how he is, of course. Well, I think he is better. The doctor thinks so, too. But why did you come here?"

"Why did I come? I? Why, because my place was here. I belonged here. For the love of mercy's sakes what are YOU doin' here? With HIM? And the smallpox!"

"Hush. I can't help it. I don't care. I don't care for anything any more. I'm glad I came. I'm glad I was the one to find him and help him. No matter what happens—to me—I'm glad. I never was so glad before. I love him, Aunt Keziah. I can say it to you, for you know it—you must know it. I LOVE him and he needed me and I came. He was calling my name when I found him. He might have died there, alone in the wet and cold, and I saved him. Think what that means to me."

The girl was in a sort of frenzy of excitement and hysterical exaltation. All the night she had been calm and quiet, repressing her feelings, and tending the man she loved. Now, with some one to whom she could confide, she was calm no longer. Keziah answered her soothingly, questioning her from time to time, until, at last, she learned the whole story.

The door opened softly and Dr. Parker came out.

"He's asleep," he said. "And he's better, much better. And I'll tell you something else, if you won't make too much noise about it—he hasn't got the smallpox."

The two women looked at him.

"Fact," he said, with an emphatic nod. "Not a symptom of it. I'd have bet my best hat that he wasn't going to have it and I won't have to go bareheaded yet awhile. He is pretty close to brain fever, though, but I guess he'll dodge that this time, with care. On the whole, Keziah, I'm glad you came. This young lady," with a movement of the head toward Grace, "has done her part. She really saved his life, if I'm not mistaken. Now, I think she can go away and leave him to you and me. I'll pretty nearly guarantee to have him up and out of this—this pesthole in a fortnight."

Here was joyful tidings, the better for being so unexpected. Keziah leaned against the boards and drew a long breath. Grace said nothing, but, after a moment, she went into the house.

"That's a good thing, too," commented Parker, watching her as she went. "I wanted to talk with you, Keziah Coffin, and right away. Now, then, there's something up, something that I don't know about, and I rather guess you do. Young women—even when they're her kind and that's as good a kind as there is—don't risk smallpox for any young man they pick up casually. They don't carry—I guess it was pretty nearly carrying—him home and put him to bed and care for him and cry over him and call him 'dear.' And he doesn't beg them to run away and let him die rather than to stay there and risk dying, too. No, not to any great extent. Now, Keziah, you and I are fairly good friends and we ought to know each other by this time. I see a light—a little one. Now, then, if you turn up the lamp, so that I can see the whole blaze, maybe I can help those two in yonder."

Keziah considered. "All right, doctor," she said, when she reached a decision, "all right; I'll tell you the whole thing, and you can see one of the reasons why my hair is gettin' grayer. This thing has reached the point now where there's no keepin' it quiet. Folk'll know—I s'pose they know already—that she's been here with him. They'll suspect a lot more and the truth is better than suspicion—that is, it can't be worse than the suspicions that come natural to a good many minds in this town. I am glad I can tell you, for I guess the time's come to step out in broad daylight and h'ist our colors. Now, you listen. Here 'tis, from beginnin' to end."

She went on to tell all she knew of her parson's love story.

Dr. Parker listened.

"Hum!" he said thoughtfully, "I see. What made her change her mind so suddenly? You say, or you gather from what Mr. Ellery told you, that she had all but agreed to marry him. She cares for him, that's sure. Then, all at once, she throws him over and accepts Nat. Of course her uncle's sudden seizure was a shock and he wanted Nat to have her, but she isn't the kind of girl to be easily swayed. Why did she do it?"

"Well, doctor, that's kind of a puzzle to me. All I can think is that she come to realize what it might mean to him, the minister, if he married a Come-Outer. I think she done it for his sake, to save him, though what made her realize it all at once I don't know. There's the part we ain't heard."

"I guess you're right. Something happened between the time she left Ellery and when you and I reached the tavern. But never mind that, that doesn't count now. Let's look at things as they are this minute. She's here and folks know it. As they do know it they'll begin to talk, and the more they talk the farther from the truth they'll get—most of 'em. Nat, poor chap, is dead, so her promise to him is canceled. Ellery will get well if he isn't troubled, and her being with him will help more than anything else. I can understand now why he broke down."

"Yes, he ain't been himself since it happened."

"Of course, and the last few weeks of worry and night work have helped to wreck his nerves. Well, as I see it, there's only one thing to do. If she leaves him he'll go to pieces again, so she mustn't leave. And she can't stay without an explanation. I say let's give the explanation; let's come right out with the announcement that they're engaged."

"Whew! that'll stir things up."

"You bet! But let it stir. I like that parson of yours; he's a trump. And I always liked her, although, generally speaking, I don't love Come-Outers. And I like her more than ever now, when she risked what she thought was smallpox to care for him. As I said, she saved his life, and she ought to have him. She SHALL have him."

"But she's a Come-Outer and—there's the church."

"Well, I know it. But he never was so popular as he is now. And she isn't by any means a steady-going Come-Outer. Why, Zeke Bassett and the rest have been finding fault with her and calling her a backslider. That'll help. Then you trust me to whoop up her heroism and the fact that without her he would have died. We can do it, Keziah. Come on! I've tackled a good many jobs, but matchmaking isn't one of 'em. Here goes to tackle that."

Keziah was delighted; here was work after her own heart. But she still hesitated.

"Doctor," she said, "you've forgot one thing, that's Gracie herself. Would she marry him now, knowing it may mean the loss of his ministry and all, any more than she would at first? I don't believe it."

"That's your part, Keziah. You've got to show her she MUST marry him or he'll die; see? Call on me to back you up in any fairy yarn you spin. You prove to her it's her duty to marry him. You'll have to stay, here and help nurse, of course, and that's easy because his disease isn't contagious. You convince her and I'll take care of the congregation. He'll live to be minister here for the rest of his life, if he wants to, and she'll be a minister's wife and sit in the front pew. I'll guarantee the church if you'll guarantee the girl. Why, it's your duty! Come, now, what do you say?"

Keziah's hesitation was at an end. Her face lit up.

"I say good!" she cried. "And I'll be thankful to you all the rest of my life. But for the dear mercy sakes, don't say 'duty' to me again. Oh, doctor, if you only knew what it means to me to be fightin' at last for somethin' that ain't just duty, but what I really want! I do honestly believe we can win. Glory, hallelujah! And now I want to give you a piece of advice, your course for the first leg, as you might say: you see Cap'n Zebedee Mayo."

"Humph! Cap'n Zeb is the first man I mean to see."

Captain Zeb listened with his mouth and eyes and ears open. Mrs. Mayo was with him when the doctor called, and she, too, listened.

"Well!" exclaimed the captain, when the plea for support was ended. "Well, by the flukes of Jonah's whale! Talk about surprises! Old lady, what do you say?"

"I say go ahead, Zebedee. Go ahead! If Mr. Ellery wanted to marry Jezebel's sister, and I knew he really wanted to, I'd—I do believe I'd help him get her. And Grace Van Horne is a good girl. Go ahead."

"Of course," put in Parker, profiting by a hint of Mrs. Coffin's, "of course Daniels will fight tooth and nail against us. He'll be for discharging Ellery at once. And he really runs the parish committee."

"He does, hey? Well, I cal'late he don't. Not if I'm on deck, he don't. All right, doctor, I'm with you. He, he, he!" he chuckled. "Say, doc, do you know I sort of love a good lively row. That's been the only trouble with our society sence Mr. Ellery took command of it—there ain't been any rows. He, he, he! Well, there'll be one now."

There was, and it was lively enough to suit even Captain Zeb. Dr. Parker, on his calls that day, was assailed with a multitude of questions concerning Grace's presence at the shanty. He answered them cheerfully, dilating upon the girl's bravery, her good sense, and the fact that she had saved Mr. Ellery's life. Then he confided, as a strict secret, the fact that the two were engaged. Before his hearers had recovered from the shock of this explosion, he was justifying the engagement. Why shouldn't they marry if they wanted to? It was a free country. The girl wasn't a Come-Outer any longer, and, besides—and this carried weight in a good many households—what a black eye the marriage would be for that no-account crowd at the chapel.

Captain Zebedee, having shipped with the insurgents, worked for them from sunrise to sunset and after. Zeb was something of a politician and knew whom to "get at." He sought his fellows on the parish committee and labored with them. Mrs. Mayo and the doctor's wife championed the cause at sewing circle. They were lively, those sewing meetings, and the fur flew. Didama Rogers and Lavinia Pepper were everywhere and ready to agree with whichever side seemed likely to win. Lavinia was so deeply interested that she forgot to catechise Abishai further about his untimely reference to Peters's grove. And Kyan, puzzled but thankful, kept silence.

It was by no means a one-sided struggle. Captain Elkanah, spurred on by the furious Annabel, marshaled his forces and proclaimed that Ellery, having disgraced the Regular Society, should no longer occupy its pulpit.

"If he does," thundered Elkanah, "I shall never cross the threshold of that church. And I've worshiped there for fifty years. Hum—ha! I should like to know whose money has gone more liberal for that meeting house than mine! But not another cent—no, sir! not one—if that licentious young scamp continues to blaspheme there."

He hinted concerning a good-sized contribution toward a parish house, something the society needed. If Ellery was discharged, the contribution would probably be made, not otherwise. And this was a point worth considering.

Daniels also wrote to his influential friends of the National Regular Society. But Captain Zebedee had forestalled him there and both letters were laid on the table to await further developments. As for the Come-Outers, they were wild with rage and Grace was formally read out of their communion.

"I wonder," shrieked Ezekiel Bassett, in prayer meeting, "what the sperrit of the good and great man who used to lead us from this 'ere platform would say if he was here now? Hey? what would he say?"

Josiah Badger upreared his lanky person. "I dreamed about Cap'n Eben t'other n-nin-nun-night," he stammered. "I see him just as—p-pup-pup-plain as you hear me n-n-now. And he says to me, he says, Josiah,' he says, 'I-I-I-I—'"

"Ki yi!" broke in Thoph Baker, from the shadow of the rear seat. Josiah turned to berate Thoph, who, being in disgrace because of his defense of Ellery, was reckless, and the communication from the dead leader of the Come-Outers was lost in the squabble which followed.

Meantime Keziah, installed as head nurse at the shanty, was having her troubles. The minister was getting better, slowly but surely getting better. The danger of brain fever was at an end, but he was very weak and must not be excited, so the doctor said. He knew nothing of the struggle for and against him which was splitting Trumet in twain, and care was taken that he should not know it. He was not allowed to talk, and, for the most part, was quite contented to be silent, watching Grace as she moved about the room. If he wondered why she was still with him, he said nothing, and the thought of what his congregation might say did not vex him in the least. She was there, he saw her every day, that was enough.

He had expressed a wish to talk with his housekeeper. "I've got something to tell you, Aunt Keziah," he said weakly. "Some news for you and—and—"

"Cat's foot!" snapped Keziah briskly, "don't start in tellin' me news now. I've got my hands full as 'tis. News'll keep and you won't, if you talk another minute."

"But this is important."

"So are you, though you may not think so. If you don't believe it ask Grace."

"Well," the minister sighed. "Well, perhaps I won't tell it now. I'd rather wait until I feel stronger. You won t care, will you? It will be hard to tell and I—"

"No, no! Care? No. If it's bad news I don't want to hear it, and if it's good I can wait, I cal'late. You turn over and take a nap."

She could manage him; it was with Grace that she had her struggle. John was safe now; he would be himself again before very long, and the girl had begun to think of his future and his reputation. She knew that gossip must be busy in the village, and, much as she wished to remain by his side, she decided that she should not do so. And then Keziah began to fulfill her agreement with Dr. Parker.

First, and bluntly, she told the girl that her leaving now was useless. The secret was out; it had been made public. Everyone knew she was in love with John and he with her. Their engagement was considered an established certainty. Grace was greatly agitated and very indignant.

"Who dared say so?" she demanded. "Who dared say we were engaged? It's not true. It's a wicked lie and—Who is responsible, Aunt Keziah?"

"Well, I suppose likely I am, much as anybody, deary."

"You? You, Aunt Keziah?"

"Yup; me. You are in love with him; at any rate, you said so. And you're here with him, ain't you? If you two ain't engaged you ought to be."

"Aunt Keziah, how can you speak so? Don't you realize—"

"Look here. Don't you want to marry him?"

"WANT to? Oh, please—How can you? I—"

"S-s-sh! There! there! I am a bull-headed old thing, for sure. But I'm like the dog that chased the rat across the shelf where they kept the best china, my intentions are good. Don't cry, deary. Let's get to the bottom of this thing, as the man said when he tumbled into the well. When I first knew that you and John were in love with each other, I felt dreadful. I knew your uncle and I knew Trumet. If you had married then, or let people know that you thought of it, 'twould have been the end, and ruin for John and you. But things are diff'rent now, a good deal diff'rent. John is worshiped pretty nigh, since his pluck with that smallpox man. He could go into church and dance a jig in the pulpit and nobody—or precious few, at least—would find fault. And you've stood by him. If it wa'n't for you he wouldn't be here to-day, and people know that. Dr. Parker and Captain Zebedee and Gaius Winslow and dozens more are fighting for him and for you. And the doctor says they are going to win. Do you want to spoil it all?"