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Keziah Coffin

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln · English · Gutenberg #2068 · 574,989 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Keziah Coffin

Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln


        
Release date: May 14, 2006 [eBook #2068]
                Most recently updated: March 5, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2068

Credits: Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KEZIAH COFFIN ***




Produced by Donald Lainson





KEZIAH COFFIN

by Joseph C. Lincoln




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

I.--    IN WHICH KEZIAH HEARS OF TWO PROPOSALS AND THE BEGINNING OF A THIRD

II.--   IN WHICH KEZIAH UNEARTHS A PROWLER

III.--  IN WHICH KEZIAH ASSUMES A GUARDIANSHIP

IV.--   IN WHICH KEZIAH'S PARSON DECIDES TO RUN IT BLINDFOLD

V.--    IN WHICH THE PARSON CRUISES IN STRANGE WATERS

VI.--   IN WHICH OLD FRIENDS MEET

VII.--  IN WHICH CAPTAIN NAT PICKS UP A DERELICT

VIII.-- IN WHICH THE PARSON AND MR. PEPPER DECLARE THEIR INDEPENDENCE

IX.--   IN WHICH MISS DANIELS DETERMINES TO FIND OUT

X.--    IN WHICH KEZIAH'S TROUBLES MULTIPLY

XI.--   IN WHICH CAPEN EBEN RECEIVES A CALLER

XII.--  IN WHICH CAPTAIN EBEN MAKES PORT

XIII.-- IN WHICH KEZIAH BREAKS THE NEWS

XIV.--  IN WHICH THE SEA MIST SAILS

XV.--   IN WHICH TRUMET TALKS OF CAPTAIN NAT

XVI--   IN WHICH THE MINISTER BOARDS THE SAN JOSE

XVII.-- IN WHICH EBENEZER CAPEN IS SURPRISED

XVIII.--IN WHICH KEZIAH DECIDES TO FIGHT

XIX.--  IN WHICH A RECEPTION IS CALLED OFF

XX.--   IN WHICH THE MINISTER RECEIVES A LETTER

XXI.--  IN WHICH MR. STONE WASHES HIS HANDS

XXII.-- IN WHICH KEZIAH'S PARSON PREACHES ONCE MORE




KEZIAH COFFIN

by Joseph C. Lincoln




CHAPTER I

IN WHICH KEZIAH HEARS TWO PROPOSALS AND THE BEGINNING OF A THIRD


Trumet in a fog; a fog blown in during the night by the wind from the
wide Atlantic. So wet and heavy that one might taste the salt in it.
So thick that houses along the main road were but dim shapes behind
its gray drapery, and only the gates and fences of the front yards
were plainly in evidence to the passers-by. The beach plum and bayberry
bushes on the dunes were spangled with beady drops. The pole on Cannon
Hill, where the beacon was hoisted when the packet from Boston dropped
anchor in the bay, was shiny and slippery. The new weathervane, a
gilded whale, presented to the “Regular” church by Captain Zebedee Mayo,
retired whaler, swam in a sea of cloud. The lichened eaves of the little
“Come-Outer” chapel dripped at sedate intervals. The brick walk leading
to the door of Captain Elkanah Daniels's fine residence held undignified
puddles in its hollows. And, through the damp stillness, the muttered
growl of the surf, three miles away at the foot of the sandy bluffs by
the lighthouse, sounded ominously.

Directly opposite Captain Elkanah's front gate, on the other side of the
main road, stood the little story-and-a-half house, also the captain's
property, which for fourteen years had been tenanted by Mrs. Keziah
Coffin and her brother, Solomon Hall, the shoemaker. But Solomon had,
the month before, given up his fight with debt and illness and was
sleeping quietly in Trumet's most populous center, the graveyard. And
Keziah, left alone, had decided that the rent and living expenses were
more than her precarious earnings as a seamstress would warrant, and,
having bargained with the furniture dealer in Wellmouth for the sale of
her household effects, was now busy getting them ready for the morrow,
when the dealer's wagon was to call. She was going to Boston, where a
distant and condescending rich relative had interested himself to the
extent of finding her a place as sewing woman in a large tailoring
establishment.

The fog hung like a wet blanket over the house and its small yard, where
a few venerable pear trees, too conservative in their old age to venture
a bud even though it was almost May, stood bare and forlorn. The day was
dismal. The dismantled dining room, its tables and chairs pushed into a
corner, and its faded ingrain carpet partially stripped from the floor,
was dismal, likewise. Considering all things, one might have expected
Keziah herself to be even more dismal. But, to all outward appearances,
she was not. A large portion of her thirty-nine years of life had been
passed under a wet blanket, so to speak, and she had not permitted
the depressing covering to shut out more sunshine than was absolutely
necessary. “If you can't get cream, you might as well learn to love your
sasser of skim milk,” said practical Keziah.

She was on her knees, her calico dress sleeves, patched and darned, but
absolutely clean, rolled back, uncovering a pair of plump, strong arms,
a saucer of tacks before her, and a tack hammer with a claw head in
her hand. She was taking up the carpet. Grace Van Horne, Captain Eben
Hammond's ward, who had called to see if there was anything she might do
to help, was removing towels, tablecloths, and the like from the drawers
in a tall “high-boy,” folding them and placing them in an old and
battered trunk. The pair had been discussing the subject which all
Trumet had discussed for three weeks, namely, the “calling” to the
pastorate of the “Regular” church of the Rev. John Ellery, the young
divinity student, who was to take the place of old Parson Langley,
minister in the parish for over thirty years. Discussion in the village
had now reached a critical point, for the Reverend John was expected
by almost any coach. In those days, the days of the late fifties, the
railroad down the Cape extended only as far as Sandwich; passengers made
the rest of their journey by stage. Many came direct from the city by
the packet, the little schooner, but Mr. Ellery had written that he
should probably come on the coach.

“They say he's very nice-looking,” remarked Miss Van Horne soberly,
but with a MISCHIEVOUS glance under her dark lashes at Keziah. The lady
addressed paused long enough to transfer several tacks from the floor to
the saucer, and then made answer.

“Humph!” she observed. “A good many years ago I saw a theater show up
to Boston. Don't be shocked; those circumstances we hear so much tell
of--the kind you can't control--have kept me from goin' to theaters
much, even if I wanted to. But I did see this entertainment, and a fool
one 'twas, too, all singin' instead of talkin'--op'ra, I believe they
called it. Well, as I started to say, one of the leadin' folks in it was
the Old Harry himself, and HE was pretty good-lookin'.”

Grace laughed, even though she had been somewhat shocked.

“Why, Aunt Keziah!” she exclaimed--those who knew Keziah Coffin
best usually called her aunt, though real nephews and nieces she had
none--“why, Aunt Keziah! What do you mean by comparing the--the person
you just mentioned with a MINISTER!”

“Oh, I wasn't comparin' 'em; I'll leave that for you Come-Outers to do.
Drat this carpet! Seems's if I never saw such long tacks; I do believe
whoever put 'em down drove 'em clean through the center of the earth and
let the Chinymen clinch 'em on t'other side. I haul up a chunk of the
cellar floor with every one. Ah, hum!” with a sigh, “I cal'late
they ain't any more anxious to leave home than I am. But, far's the
minister's concerned, didn't I hear of your Uncle Eben sayin' in prayer
meetin' only a fortni't or so ago that all hands who wa'n't Come-Outers
were own children to Satan? Mr. Ellery must take after his father some.
Surprisin', ain't it, what a family the old critter's got.”

The girl laughed again. For one brought up, since her seventh year,
in the strictest of Come-Outer families, she laughed a good deal. Many
Come-Outers considered it wicked to laugh. Yet Grace did it, and hers
was a laugh pleasant to hear and distinctly pleasant to see. It made her
prettier than ever, a fact which, if she was aware of it, should have
been an additional preventive, for to be pretty smacks of vanity.
Perhaps she wasn't aware of it.

“What do you think Uncle Eben would say if he heard that?” she asked.

“Say I took after my father, too, I presume likely. Does your uncle know
you come here to see me so often? And call me 'aunt' and all that?”

“Of course he does. Aunt Keziah, you mustn't think Uncle Eben doesn't
see the good in people simply because they don't believe as he does.
He's as sweet and kind as--”

“Who? Eben Hammond? Land sakes, child, don't I know it? Cap'n Eben's the
salt of the earth. I'm a Regular and always have been, but I'd be glad
if my own society was seasoned with a few like him. 'Twould taste better
to me of a Sunday.” She paused, and then added quizzically: “What d'you
s'pose Cap'n Elkanah and the rest of our parish committee would say if
they heard THAT?”

“Goodness knows! Still, I'm glad to hear you say it. And uncle says you
are as good a woman as ever lived. He thinks you're misled, of course,
but that some day you'll see the error of your ways.”

“Humph! I'll have to hurry up if I want to see 'em without spectacles.
See my errors! Land sakes! much as I can do to see the heads of these
tacks. Takin' up carpets is as hard a test of a body's eyesight as 'tis
of their religion.”

Her companion put down the tablecloth she was folding and looked
earnestly at the other woman. To an undiscerning eye the latter would
have looked much as she always did--plump and matronly, with brown hair
drawn back from the forehead and parted in the middle; keen brown eyes
with a humorous twinkle in them--this was the Keziah Coffin the later
generation of Trumet knew so well.

But Grace Van Horne, who called her aunt and came to see her so
frequently, while her brother was alive and during the month following
his death, could see the changes which the month had wrought. She saw
the little wrinkles about the eyes and the lines of care about the
mouth, the tired look of the whole plucky, workaday New England figure.
She shook her head.

“Religion!” she repeated. “I do believe, Aunt Keziah, that you've got
the very best religion of anybody I know. I don't care if you don't
belong to our church. When I see how patient you've been and how
cheerful through all your troubles, it--”

Mrs. Coffin waved the hammer deprecatingly. “There! there!” she
interrupted. “I guess it's a good thing I'm goin' away. Here's you and I
praisin' up each other's beliefs, just as if that wasn't a crime here
in Trumet. Sometimes when I see how the two societies in this little
one-horse place row with each other, I declare if it doesn't look as if
they'd crossed out the first word of 'Love your neighbor' and wrote in
'Fight,' instead. Yet I'm a pretty good Regular, too, and when it comes
to whoopin' and carryin' on like the Come-Outers, I--Well! well!
never mind; don't begin to bristle up. I won't say another word about
religion. Let's pick the new minister to pieces. ANY kind of a Christian
can do that.”

But the new minister was destined to remain undissected that morning,
in that house at least. Grace was serious now and she voiced the matter
which had been uppermost in her mind since she left home.

“Aunt Keziah,” she said, “why do you go away? What makes you? Is it
absolutely necessary?”

“Why do I go? Why, for the same reason that the feller that was hove
overboard left the ship--cause I can't stay. You've got to have vittles
and clothes, even in Trumet, and a place to put your head in nights.
Long's Sol was alive and could do his cobblin' we managed to get along
somehow. What I could earn sewin' helped, and we lived simple. But when
he was taken down and died, the doctor's bills and the undertaker's used
up what little money I had put by, and the sewin' alone wouldn't keep
a healthy canary in bird seed. Dear land knows I hate to leave the old
house I've lived in for fourteen years and the town I was born in, but
I've got to, for all I see. Thank mercy, I can pay Cap'n Elkanah his
last month's rent and go with a clear conscience. I won't owe anybody,
that's a comfort, and nobody will owe me; though I could stand that, I
guess,” she added, prying at the carpet edge.

“I don't care!” The girl's dark eyes flashed indignantly. “I think it's
too bad of Cap'n Elkanah to turn you out when--”

“Don't talk that way. He ain't turnin' me out. He ain't lettin' houses
for his health and he'll need the money to buy his daughter's summer
rigs. She ain't had a new dress for a month, pretty near, and here's
a young and good-lookin' parson heavin' in sight. Maybe Cap'n Elkanah
would think a minister was high-toned enough even for Annabel to marry.”

“He's only twenty-three, they say,” remarked Grace, a trifle
maliciously. “Perhaps she'll adopt him.”

Annabel was the only child of Captain Elkanah Daniels, who owned the
finest house in town. She was the belle of Trumet, and had been for a
good many years.

Keziah laughed.

“Well,” she said, “anyhow I've got to go. Maybe I'll like Boston first
rate, you can't tell. Or maybe I won't. Ah, hum! 'twouldn't be the first
thing I've had to do that I didn't like.”

Her friend looked at her.

“Aunt,” she said, “I want to make a proposal to you, and you mustn't be
cross about it.”

“A proposal! Sakes alive! What'll I say? 'This is so sudden!' That's
what Becky Ryder, up to the west part of the town, said when Jim Baker,
the tin peddler, happened to ask her if she'd ever thought of gettin'
married. 'O James! this is so sudden!' says Becky. Jim said afterwards
that the suddenest thing about it was the way he cleared out of that
house. And he never called there afterwards.”

Grace smiled, but quickly grew grave.

“Now, auntie,” she said, “please listen. I'm in earnest. It seems to me
that you might do quite well at dressmaking here in town, if you had
a little--well, ready money to help you at the start. I've got a few
hundred dollars in the bank, presents from uncle, and my father's
insurance money. I should love to lend it to you, and I know uncle
would--”

Mrs. Coffin interrupted her.

“Cat's foot!” she exclaimed. “I hope I haven't got where I need to
borrow money yet a while. Thank you just as much, deary, but long's I've
got two hands and a mouth, I'll make the two keep t'other reasonably
full, I wouldn't wonder. No, I shan't think of it, so don't say another
word. NO.”

The negative was so decided that Grace was silenced. Her disappointment
showed in her face, however, and Keziah hastened to change the subject.

“How do you know,” she observed, “but what my goin' to Boston may be the
best thing that ever happened to me? You can't tell. No use despairin',
Annabel ain't given up hope yet; why should I? Hey? Ain't that somebody
comin'?”

Her companion sprang to her feet and ran to the window. Then she broke
into a smothered laugh.

“Why, it's Kyan Pepper!” she exclaimed. “He must be coming to see you,
Aunt Keziah. And he's got on his very best Sunday clothes. Gracious! I
must be going. I didn't know you expected callers.”

Keziah dropped the tack hammer and stood up.

“Kyan!” she repeated. “What in the world is that old idiot comin' here
for? To talk about the minister, I s'pose. How on earth did Laviny ever
come to let him out alone?”

Mr. Pepper, Mr. Abishai Pepper, locally called “Kyan” (Cayenne) Pepper
because of his red hair and thin red side whiskers, was one of Trumet's
“characters,” and in his case the character was weak. He was born in the
village and, when a youngster, had, like every other boy of good family
in the community, cherished ambitions for a seafaring life. His sister,
Lavinia, ten years older than he, who, after the death of their parents,
had undertaken the job of “bringing up” her brother, did not sympathize
with these ambitions. Consequently, when Kyan ran away she followed him
to Boston, stalked aboard the vessel where he had shipped, and collared
him, literally and figuratively. One of the mates venturing to offer
objection, Lavinia turned upon him and gave him a piece of her mind, to
the immense delight of the crew and the loungers on the wharf. Then she
returned with the vagrant to Trumet. Old Captain Higgins, who skippered
the packet in those days, swore that Lavinia never stopped lecturing her
brother from the time they left Boston until they dropped anchor behind
the breakwater.

“I give you my word that 'twas pretty nigh a stark calm, but there was
such a steady stream of language pourin' out of the Pepper stateroom
that the draught kept the sails filled all the way home,” asserted
Captain Higgins.

That was Kyan's sole venture, so far as sailoring was concerned, but he
ran away again when he was twenty-five. This time he returned of his
own accord, bringing a wife with him, one Evelyn Gott of Ostable. Evelyn
could talk a bit herself, and her first interview with Lavinia ended
with the latter's leaving the house in a rage, swearing never to set
foot in it again. This oath she broke the day of her sister-in-law's
funeral. Then she appeared, after the ceremony, her baggage on the wagon
with her. The bereaved one, who was sitting on the front stoop of his
dwelling with, so people say, a most resigned expression on his meek
countenance, looked up and saw her.

“My land! Laviny,” he exclaimed, turning pale. “Where'd you come from?”

“Never mind WHERE I come from,” observed his sister promptly. “You just
be thankful I've come. If ever a body needed some one to take care of
'em, it's you. You can tote my things right in,” she added, turning to
her grinning driver, “and you, 'Bishy, go right in with 'em. The idea
of your settin' outside takin' it easy when your poor wife ain't been
buried more'n an hour!”

“But--but--Laviny,” protested poor Kyan, speaking the truth unwittingly,
“I couldn't take it easy AFORE she was buried, could I?”

“Go right in,” was the answer. “March!”

Abishai marched, and had marched under his sister's orders ever since.
She kept house for him, and did it well, but her one fear was that some
female might again capture him, and she watched him with an eagle
eye. He was the town assessor and tax collector, but when he visited
dwellings containing single women or widows, Lavinia always accompanied
him, “to help him in his figgerin',” she said.

Consequently, when he appeared, unchaperoned, on the walk leading to the
side door of the Coffin homestead, Keziah and her friend were surprised.

“He's dressed to kill,” whispered Grace, at the window. “Even his tall
hat; and in this fog! I do believe he's coming courting, Aunt Keziah.”

“Humph!” was the ungracious answer. “He's come to say good-by, I s'pose,
and to find out where I'm goin' and how much pay I'm goin' to get and if
my rent's settled, and a few other little things that ain't any of
his business. Laviny put him up to it, you see. She'll be along pretty
quick. Well, I'll fix him so he won't talk much. He can help us take
down that stovepipe. I said 'twas a job for a man, and a half one's
better than none--Why, how d'ye do, 'Bishy? Come right in. Pretty thick
outside, isn't it?”

Mr. Pepper entered diffidently.

“Er--er--how d'ye do, Keziah?” he stammered. “I thought I'd just run in
a minute and--”

“Yes, yes. Glad to see you. Take off your hat. My sakes! it's pretty
wet. How did Laviny come to let you--I mean how'd you come to wear a
beaver such a mornin's this?”

Kyan removed the silk hat and inspected its limp grandeur ruefully.

“I--I--” he began. “Well, the fact is, I come out by myself. You see,
Laviny's gone up to Sarah B.'s to talk church doin's. I--I--well, I kind
of wanted to speak with you about somethin', Keziah, so--Oh! I didn't
see you, Gracie. Good mornin'.”

He didn't seem overjoyed to see Miss Van Horne, as it was. In fact,
he reddened perceptibly and backed toward the door. The girl, her eyes
twinkling, took up her jacket and hat.

“Oh! I'm not going to stop, Mr. Pepper,” she said. “I was only helping
Aunt Keziah a little, that's all. I must run on now.”

“Run on--nonsense!” declared Keziah decisively. “You're goin' to stay
right here and help us get that stovepipe down. And 'Bishy'll help, too.
Won't you, 'Bish?”

The stovepipe was attached to the “air-tight” in the dining room.
It--the pipe--rose perpendicularly for a few feet and then extended
horizontally, over the high-boy, until it entered the wall. Kyan looked
at it and then at his “Sunday clothes.”

“Why, I'd be glad to, of course,” he declared with dubious enthusiasm.
“But I don't know's I'll have time. Perhaps I'd better come later and do
it. Laviny, she--”

“Oh, Laviny can spare you for a few minutes, I guess; 'specially as she
don't know you're out. Better take your coat off, hadn't you? Grace,
fetch one of those chairs for Ky--for 'Bishy to stand in.”

Grace obediently brought the chair. It happened to be the one with a
rickety leg, but its owner was helping the reluctant Abishai remove the
long-tailed blue coat which had been his wedding garment and had adorned
his person on occasions of ceremony ever since. She did not notice the
chair.

“It's real good of you to offer to help,” she said. “Grace and I didn't
hardly dast to try it alone. That pipe's been up so long that I wouldn't
wonder if 'twas chock-full of soot. If you're careful, though, I don't
believe you'll get any on you. Never mind the floor; I'm goin' to wash
that before I leave.”

Reluctantly, slowly, the unwilling Mr. Pepper suffered himself to be led
to the chair. He mounted it and gingerly took hold of the pipe.

“Better loosen it at the stove hole first,” advised Keziah. “What was it
you wanted to see me about, 'Bish?”

“Oh, nothin', nothin',” was the hasty response. “Nothin' of any
account--that is to say--”

He turned redder than ever and wrenched at the pipe. It loosened at its
lower end and the wires holding it in suspension shook.

“I guess,” observed the lady of the house, “that you'd better move that
chest of drawers out so's you can get behind it. Grace, you help me.
There! that's better. Now move your chair.”

Kyan stepped from the chair and moved the latter to a position between
the high-boy and the wall. Then he remounted and gripped the pipe in the
middle of its horizontal section.

“Seems to stick in the chimney there, don't it?” queried Keziah. “Wiggle
it back and forth; that ought to loosen it. What was it you wanted to
say, 'Bish?”

Apparently, Mr. Pepper had nothing to say. The crimson tide had reached
his ears, which, always noticeable because of their size and spread,
were now lit up like a schooner's sails at sunset. His hands trembled on
the pipe.

“Nothin', nothin', I tell you,” he faltered. “I--I just run in to say
how d'ye do, that's all.”

“Really, I think I'd better be going,” said Grace, glancing from Kyan's
embarrassed face to that of the unsuspecting Mrs. Coffin. “I'm afraid
I'm in the way.”

“No, no!” shouted the occupant of the chair. “No, no, you ain't!”

“But I'm afraid I am. And they'll be expecting me at home. Aunt Keziah,
I--”

“Don't be in such a hurry,” interrupted Keziah. “Does stick in the
chimney, don't it? Tell you what you can do, Grace; you can go in the
woodshed and fetch the hammer that's in the table drawer. Hurry up,
that's a good girl.”

Kyan protested that he did not need the hammer, but his protest was
unheeded. With one more glance at the couple, Grace departed from the
kitchen, biting her lips. She shut the door carefully behind her. Mr.
Pepper labored frantically with the pipe.

“No use to shake it any more till you get the hammer,” advised Keziah.
“Might's well talk while you're waitin'. What was it you wanted to tell
me?”

Abishai drew one hand across his forehead, leaving a decorative smooch
of blacking on his perspiring countenance. He choked, swallowed, and
then, with a look at the closed door, seemed to reach a desperate
resolve.

“Keziah,” he whispered hurriedly, “you've known me quite a spell, ain't
you?”

“Known you? Known you ever since you were born, pretty nigh. What of
it?”

“Yes, yes. And I've known you, you know. Fact is, we've known each
other.”

“Hear the man! Land sakes! don't everybody in Trumet know everybody
else? What ARE you drivin' at?”

“Keziah, you're a single woman.”

His companion let go of the chair, which she had been holding in place,
and stepped back.

“I'm a single woman?” she repeated sharply. “What do you mean by that?
Did--did anybody say I wasn't?”

“No, no! 'Course not. But you're a widow, so you BE single, you know,
and--”

“Well? Did you think I was twins? Get down off there this minute. You've
gone crazy. I thought so when I saw that beaver. Either that or you've
been drinkin'. Grace! What DOES make her so long gettin' that hammer?”

Finding the hammer did seem to take a long time. There was no sound from
the kitchen. Kyan, steadying himself with one hand on the pipe, waved
the other wildly.

“S-s-sh! s-sh-h!” he hissed. “Hush! be still! Don't get her in here.
Keziah, you're single and so am I. You ain't got nobody to take care of
you and I ain't, neither--that is, I don't want to be took care of--I
mean, I've been took care of too much.”

Mrs. Coffin took another step in the direction of the kitchen.

“He IS loony!” she exclaimed under her breath. “I--”

“No, no! I ain't loony. I want to make a proposal to you. I want to see
if you won't marry me. I'm sick of Laviny. Let's you and me settle down
together. I could have some peace then. And I think a whole lot of you,
too,” he added, apparently as an afterthought.

Keziah's face was red now, and growing redder every instant.

“Kyan Pepper!” she cried in amazed incredulity. “Kyan Pepper, do you--”

“Hurry up!” pleaded Abishai, in agitated impatience. “Say yes quick.
She'll be back in a minute.”

“Say YES! Why, you--”

“Don't stop to argue, Keziah. I've got 'most fifteen hundred dollars in
the bank. Laviny keeps the pass book in her bureau, but you could get it
from her. I own my house. I'm a man of good character. You're poor,
but I don't let that stand in the way. Anyhow, you're a first-rate
housekeeper. And I really do think an awful lot of you.”

Mrs. Coffin stepped no farther in the direction of the kitchen. Instead,
she strode toward the rickety chair and its occupant. Kyan grasped the
pipe with both hands.

“You poor--miserable--impudent--” began the lady.

“Why, Keziah, don't you WANT to?” He spoke as if the possibility of
a refusal had never entered his mind. “I cal'lated you'd be glad.
You wouldn't have to go away then, nor--My soul and body! some one's
knockin' at the door! AND THIS DUMMED PIPE'S FETCHED LOOSE!”

The last sentence was a smothered shriek. Keziah heeded not. Neither
did she heed the knock at the door. Her hands were opening and closing
convulsively.

“Be glad!” she repeated. “Glad to marry a good-for-nothin' sand-peep
like you! You sassy--GET down off that chair and out of this house! Get
down this minute!”

“I can't! This stovepipe's loose, I tell you! Be reason'ble, Keziah.
Do--don't you touch me! I'll fall if you do. Pl-e-ase, Keziah!--O Lordy!
I knew it. LAVINY!”

The door opened. On the threshold, arms akimbo and lips set tight, stood
Lavinia Pepper. Her brother's knees gave way; in their collapse they
struck the chair back; the rickety leg wabbled. Kyan grasped at the pipe
to save himself and, the next moment, chair, sections of stovepipe, and
Mr. Pepper disappeared with a mighty crash behind the high-boy. A cloud
of soot arose and obscured the view.

Keziah, too indignant even to laugh, glared at the wreck. In the doorway
of the kitchen Grace Van Horne, hammer in hand, leaned against the jamb,
her handkerchief at her mouth and tears in her eyes. Lavinia, majestic
and rigid, dominated the scene. From behind the high-boy came coughs,
sneezes, and emphatic ejaculations.

Miss Pepper was the first to speak.

“Abishai Pepper,” she commanded, “come out of that this minute.”

Her answer was a tremendous sneeze. Then from the dusky cloud by the
wall sounded a voice feebly protesting.

“Now, Laviny,” began poor Kyan, “I never in my life--”

“Do you hear me? Come out of that!”

There was a sound of scrambling. More soot floated in the air. Then
around the corner of the high-boy appeared Mr. Pepper, crawling on his
hands and knees. His hair was streaked with black; his shirt front and
collar and shirt sleeves were spotted and smeared with black; and from
his blackened cheeks his red whiskers flamed like the last glowing
embers in a fire-scarred ruin.

“Laviny,” he panted, “I never was so surprised and upsot in all my life
afore.”

This was too much for Grace. She collapsed in a chair and laughed
hysterically. Even the wrathful Keziah smiled. But Lavinia did not
smile. For that matter, neither did her brother.

“Hum!” sneered Miss Pepper. “Upsot! Yes, I see you're upsot. Get up, and
try to look as much like a Christian as you can!”

Kyan rose from his knees to his feet and rubbed his back. He glanced
reproachfully at Grace, then fearfully at his sister.

“I was just tryin' to help Keziah take down her stovepipe,” he
explained. “You see, she didn't have no man to--”

“Yes, I see. Well, I judge you got it down. Now you go out to the sink
and wash your face. Heavens and earth! Look at them clothes!”

“I do hope you didn't hurt yourself, Abishai,” said the sympathetic
Keziah. Then, as remembrance of what had led to the upset came to her,
she added: “Though I will say 'twas your own fault and nobody else's.”

Lavinia whirled on her.

“His own fault, was it?” she repeated, her voice shrill and trembling.
“Thank you very much, marm. I cal'late 'twas his own fault comin'
here, too, wa'n't it? Nobody led him on, I s'pose. Nobody put him up to
riggin' out in his best bib and tucker and sneakin' here the minute I
was out of the house. No, nobody did! Of COURSE not!”

“No, nobody did,” said Keziah briskly. “And you may know what you're
hintin' at, but I don't.”

“Dear me! Ain't we innocent! We've got plenty of money, WE have.
Widowers with property ain't no attraction to US. Everybody knows
that--oh, yes! And they never talk of such a thing--oh, no! Folks don't
say that--that--Well,” with a snarl in the direction of the kitchen,
“are you anywheres nigh clean yet? Get your coat and hat on and come
home with me.”

She jerked her brother into the blue coat, jammed the tall hat down upon
his head, and, seizing him by the arm, stalked to the door.

“Good day, marm,” she said. “I do hope the next widower you get to take
down your stovepipe--yes, indeed! ha! ha!--I hope you'll have better
luck with him. Though I don't know who 'twould be; there ain't no more
idiots in town that I know of. Good day, and thank you kindly for your
attentions to our family.”

She pulled the door open and was on the step; but Mrs. Coffin did not
intend to let her go in just that way.

“Laviny Pepper,” she declared, her eyes snapping, “I don't know what
you're talkin' about, but if you dare to mean that I want any of your
money, or your brother's money, you're mistaken--'cause I don't. And I
don't want your brother either--Lord help him, poor thing! And I tell
you right now that there's nobody that does; though some kind-hearted
folks have said 'twould be a Christian act to poison him, so's to put
him out of his misery. There! Good mornin' to you.”

She slammed the door. Lavinia was speechless. As for her brother, but
one remark of his reached Grace, who was watching from the window.

“Laviny,” pleaded Kyan, “just let me explain.”

At nine o'clock that night he was still “explaining.”

Keziah turned from the door she had closed behind her visitor.

“Well!” she ejaculated. “WELL!”

Her friend did not look at her. She was still gazing out of the window.
Occasionally she seemed to choke.

Keziah eyed her suspiciously.

“Humph!” she mused. “'Twas funny, wasn't it?”

“Oh, dreadfully!” was the hurried answer.

“Yes. Seems to me you took an awful long time findin' that hammer.”

“It was away back in the drawer. I didn't see it at first.”

“Hum! Grace Van Horne, if I thought you heard what that--that THING said
to me, I'd--I'd--Good land of mercy! somebody ELSE is comin'.”

Steps, measured, dignified steps, sounded on the walk. From without came
a “Hum--ha!” a portentous combination of cough and grunt. Grace dodged
back from the window and hastily began donning her hat and jacket.

“It's Cap'n Elkanah,” she whispered. “I must go. This seems to be your
busy morning, Aunt Keziah. I”--here she choked again--“really, I didn't
know you were so popular.”

Keziah opened the door. Captain Elkanah Daniels, prosperous, pompous,
and unbending, crossed the threshold. Richest man in the village,
retired shipowner, pillar of the Regular church and leading member of
its parish committee, Captain Elkanah looked the part. He removed
his hat, cleared his throat behind his black stock, and spoke with
impressive deliberation.

“Good morning, Keziah. Ah--er--morning, Grace.” Even in the tone given
to a perfunctory salutation like this, the captain differentiated
between Regular and Come-Outer. “Keziah, I--hum, ha!--rather expected to
find you alone.”

“I was just going, Cap'n Daniels,” explained the girl. The captain bowed
and continued.

“Keziah,” he said, “Keziah, I came to see you on a somewhat important
matter. I have a proposal I wish to make you.”

He must have been surprised at the effect of his words. Keziah's face
was a picture, a crimson picture of paralyzed amazement. As for Miss Van
Horne, that young lady gave vent to what her friend described afterwards
as a “squeal,” and bolted out of the door and into the grateful
seclusion of the fog.


CHAPTER II

IN WHICH KEZIAH UNEARTHS A PROWLER


The fog was cruel to the gossips of Trumet that day. Mrs. Didama Rogers,
who lived all alone, except for the society of three cats, a canary,
and a white poodle named “Bunch,” in the little house next to Captain
Elkanah's establishment, never entirely recovered from the chagrin
and disappointment caused by that provoking mist. When one habitually
hurries through the morning's household duties in order to sit by the
front window and note each passer-by, with various fascinating surmises
as to his or her errand and the reasons for it, it is discouraging to be
able to see only one's own front fence and a scant ten feet of sidewalk.
And then to learn afterwards of a dozen most exciting events, each
distinctly out of the ordinary, which might have been used as excuses
for two dozen calls and as many sensations! As Captain Zeb Mayo, the
irreverent ex-whaler, put it, “That fog shook Didama's faith in the
judgment of Providence. 'Tain't the 'all wise,' but the 'all seein''
kind she talks about in meetin' now.”

The fog prevented Mrs. Rogers's noting the entrance of Mr. Pepper at the
Coffin front gate. Also his exit, under sisterly arrest. It shut from
her view the majestic approach of Captain Elkanah Daniels and Grace's
flight, her face dimpled with smiles and breaking into laughter
at frequent intervals. For a young lady, supposed to be a devout
Come-Outer, to hurry along the main road, a handkerchief at her mouth
and her eyes sparkling with fun, was a circumstance calculated to
furnish material for enjoyable scandal. And Didama missed it.

Other happenings she missed, also. Not knowing of Captain Daniels's call
upon Keziah, she was deprived of the pleasure of wonder at the length of
his stay. She did not see him, in company with Mrs. Coffin, go down
the road in the opposite direction from that taken by Grace. Nor their
return and parting at the gate, two hours later. She did not see--but
there! she saw nothing, absolutely nothing--except the scraggy spruce
tree in her tiny front yard and the lonely ten feet of walk bordering
it. No one traversed that section of walk except old Mrs. Tinker, who
was collecting subscriptions for new hymn books for the Come-Outer
chapel. And Didama was particularly anxious NOT to see her.

The dismal day dragged on. The silver-leaf trees dripped, the hedges
were shining with moisture. Through the stillness the distant surf along
the “ocean side” of the Cape growled and moaned and the fog bell at the
lighthouse clanged miserably. Along the walk opposite Didama's--the
more popular side of the road--shadowy figures passed at long intervals,
children going to and from school, people on errands to the store, and
the like. It was three o'clock in the afternoon before a visitor came
again to the Coffin front gate, entered the yard and rapped at the side
door.

Keziah opened the door.

“Halloa!” she exclaimed. “Back, are you? I begun to think you'd been
scared away for good.”

Grace laughed as she entered.

“Well, auntie,” she said, “I don't wonder you thought I was scared.
Truly, I didn't think it was proper for me to stay. First Kyan and then
Cap'n Elkanah, and both of them expressing their wishes to see you alone
so--er--pointedly. I thought it was time for me to go. Surely, you give
me credit for a little delicacy.”

Keziah eyed her grimly.

“Humph!” she sniffed. “If you'd been a little less delicate about
fetchin' that hammer, we might have been spared at least one smash-up. I
don't s'pose Laviny'll ever speak to me again. Oh, dear! I guess likely
I'll never get the memory of that--that Kyan thing out of my mind. I
never was so set back in my born days. Yes, you can laugh!”

She laughed herself as she said it. As for Grace, it was sometime before
that young lady became coherent.

“He DID look so funny!” she gasped. “Hopping up and down on that shaky
chair and holding on to that pipe and--and--O Aunt Keziah, if you could
have seen your face when I opened that door!”

“Yes; well, I will say you was sometime gettin' it open. And then, on
top of the whole fool business, in parades Elkanah Daniels and--”

She paused. Her companion looked delightedly expectant.

“Yes,” she cried eagerly. “Then Cap'n Elkanah came and the very first
thing he said was--I almost laughed in his face.”

“Almost! Humph! that's no exaggeration. The way you put out of that door
was a caution.”

“Yes, but what did the cap'n mean? Is it a secret? Ahem! shall I
congratulate you, auntie?”

“Grace Van Horne! there's born fools enough in this town without your
tryin' to be one. You know 'twa'n't THAT. Though what 'twas was surprise
enough, I will say,” she added. “Grace, I ain't goin' away to-morrow.”

“You're not? Oh, splendid! Has the cap'n decided to let you stay here?”

“I guess his decidin' wouldn't influence me, if twas stayin' in his
house he meant. The only way I could live here would be on his charity,
and that would be as poor fodder as sawdust hasty puddin', even if I
was fond of charity, which I ain't. He said to me--Well, you take your
things off and I'll tell you about it. You can stay a little while,
can't you?”

“Yes, I was going to stay all the afternoon and for supper, if you'd let
me. I knew you had so much to do and I wanted to help. I told uncle and
he said certainly I ought to come. He said he should try to see you and
say good-by before you left tomorrow.”

“You don't say! And me a Regular! Well, I'm much obliged, though I guess
your Uncle Eben won't see me to-morrow--nor speak to me again, when he
knows what I AM going to do. Grace, I ain't goin' to leave Trumet, not
for the present, anyhow. I've got a way of earnin' my livin' right here.
I'm goin' to keep house for the new minister.”

The girl turned, her hat in her hand.

“Oh!” she cried in utter astonishment.

Keziah nodded. “Yes,” she affirmed. “That was what Elkanah's proposal
amounted to. Ha! ha! Deary me! When he said 'proposal,' I own up for
a minute I didn't know WHAT was comin'. After Kyan I was prepared
for 'most anything. But he told me that Lurany Phelps, who the parish
committee had counted on to keep house for Mr. Ellery, had sent word her
sister was sick and couldn't be left, and that somebody must be hired
right off 'cause the minister's expected by day after to-morrow's coach.
And they'd gone over every likely candidate in town till it simmered
down to Mehitable Burgess. And Cap'n Zeb Mayo spoke right up in the
committee meetin' and gave out that if Mehitable kept house for Mr.
Ellery he, for one, wouldn't come to church. Said he didn't want to hear
sermons that was inspired by HER cookin'. Seems she cooked for the Mayos
one week when Mrs. Mayo had gone to Boston, and Cap'n Zeb declares his
dreams that week was somethin' awful. 'And I'm a man with no nerves and
mighty little imagination,' he says. 'Land knows what effect a dose of
Mehitable's biscuits might have on a MINISTER.'

“And so,” continued Keziah, “they decided Mehitable wouldn't do, and
finally somebody thought of me. I have a notion 'twas Zeb, although
Cap'n Elkanah did his best to make me think 'twas himself. And the cap'n
was made a delegate to come and see me about it. Come he did, and we
settled it. I went down to the parsonage with him before dinner and
looked the place over. There's an awful lot of sweepin' and dustin' to
be done afore it's fit for a body to live in. I did think that when I'd
finished with this house I could swear off on that kind of dissipation
for a while, but I guess, judgin' by the looks of that parsonage, what
I've done so far is only practice.” She paused, glanced keenly at her
friend and asked: “Why! what's the matter? You don't act nigh so glad as
I thought you'd be.”

Grace said of course she was glad; but she looked troubled,
nevertheless.

“I can hardly make it seem possible,” she said. “Is it really
settled--your salary and everything? And what will you do about your
position in Boston?”

“Oh, I'll write Cousin Abner and tell him. Lord love you, HE won't care.
He'll feel that he did his duty in gettin' me the Boston chance and if I
don't take it 'tain't his fault. HIS conscience'll be clear. Land sakes!
if I could clean house as easy as some folks clear their consciences I
wouldn't have a backache this minute. Yes, the wages are agreed on, too.
And totin' them around won't make my back ache any worse, either,” she
added drily.

Grace extended her hand.

“Well, Aunt Keziah,” she said, “I'm ever and ever so glad for you.
I know you didn't want to leave Trumet and I'm sure everyone will be
delighted when they learn that you're going to stay.”

“Humph! that includes Laviny Pepper, of course. I cal'late Laviny's
delight won't keep her up nights. But I guess I can stand it if she can.
Now, Grace, what is it? You AIN'T real pleased? Why not?”

The girl hesitated.

“Auntie,” she said, “I'm selfish, I guess. I'm glad for your sake; you
mustn't think I'm not. But I almost wish you were going to do something
else. You are going to live in the Regular parsonage and keep house
for, of all persons, a Regular minister. Why, so far as my seeing you is
concerned, you might as well be in China. You know Uncle Eben.”

Keziah nodded understandingly.

“Yes,” she said, “I know him. Eben Hammond thinks that parsonage is
the presence chamber of the Evil One, I presume likely. But, Grace, you
mustn't blame me, and if you don't call I'll know why and I shan't blame
you. We'll see each other once in a while; I'll take care of that. And,
deary, I HAD to do it--I just had to. If you knew what a load had been
took off my mind by this, you'd sympathize with me and understand. I've
been happier in Trumet than I ever was anywhere else, though I've seen
some dark times here, too. I was born here; my folks used to live here.
My brother Sol lived and died here. His death was a heavy trouble to
me, but the heaviest came to me when I was somewheres else and--well,
somehow I've had a feelin' that, if there was any real joys ever planned
out for me while I'm on this earth, they'd come to me here. I don't know
when they'll come. There's times when I can't believe they ever will
come, but--There! there! everybody has to bear burdens in this life, I
cal'late. It's a vale of tears, 'cordin' to you Come-Outer folks, though
I've never seen much good in wearin' a long face and a crape bathin'
suit on that account. Hey? What are you listenin' to?”

“I thought I heard a carriage stop, that was all.”

Mrs. Coffin went to the window and peered into the fog.

“Can't see anything,” she said. “'Tain't anybody for here, that's sure.
I guess likely 'twas Cap'n Elkanah. He and Annabel were goin' to drive
over to Denboro this afternoon. She had some trimmin' to buy. Takes more
than fog to separate Annabel Daniels from dressmakin'. Well, there's a
little more packin' to do; then I thought I'd go down to that parsonage
and take a whack at the cobwebs. I never saw so many in my born days.
You'd think all the spiders from here to Ostable had been holdin' camp
meetin' in that shut-up house.”

The packing took about an hour. When it was finished, the carpet rolled
up, and the last piece of linen placed in the old trunk, Keziah turned
to her guest.

“Now, Gracie,” she said, “I feel as though I ought to go to the
parsonage. I can't do much more'n look at the cobwebs to-night, but
to-morrow those spiders had better put on their ascension robes. The
end of the world's comin' for them, even though it missed fire for the
Millerites when they had their doin's a few years ago. You can stay
here and wait, if 'twon't be too lonesome. We'll have supper when I get
back.”

Grace looked tempted.

“I've a good mind to go with you,” she said. “I want to be with you as
much as I can, and HE isn't there yet. I'm afraid uncle might not like
it, but--”

“Sho! Come along. Eben Hammond may be a chronic sufferer from acute
Come-Outiveness, but he ain't a ninny. Nobody'll see you, anyway. This
fog's like charity, it'll cover a heap of sins. Do come right along.
Wait till I get on my things.”

She threw a shawl over her shoulders, draped a white knitted “cloud”
 over her head, and took from a nail a key, attached by a strong cord to
a block of wood eight inches long.

“Elkanah left the key with me,” she observed. “No danger of losin' it,
is there. Might as well lose a lumber yard. Old Parson Langley tied it
up this way, so he wouldn't miss his moorin's, I presume likely. The
poor old thing was so nearsighted and absent-minded along toward the
last that they say he used to hire Noah Myrick's boy to come in and look
him over every Sunday mornin' before church, so's to be sure he hadn't
got his wig on stern foremost. That's the way Zeb Mayo tells the yarn,
anyhow.”

They left the house and came out into the wet mist. Then, turning to
the right, in the direction which Trumet, with unconscious irony, calls
“downtown,” they climbed the long slope where the main road mounts the
outlying ridge of Cannon Hill, passed Captain Mayo's big house--the
finest in Trumet, with the exception of the Daniels mansion--and
descended into the hollow beyond. Here, at the corner where the
“Lighthouse Lane” begins its winding way over the rolling knolls and
dunes to the light and the fish shanties on the “ocean side,” stood
the plain, straight-up-and-down meeting house of the Regular society.
Directly opposite was the little parsonage, also very straight up and
down. Both were painted white with green blinds. This statement is
superfluous to those who remember Cape architecture at this period;
practically every building from Sandwich to Provincetown was white and
green.

They entered the yard, through the gap in the white fence, and went
around the house, past the dripping evergreens and the bare, wet lilac
bushes, to the side door, the lock of which Keziah's key fitted. There
was a lock on the front door, of course, but no one thought of meddling
with that. That door had been opened but once during the late pastor's
thirty-year tenantry. On the occasion of his funeral the mourners came
and went, as was proper, by that solemn portal.

Mrs. Coffin thrust the key into the keyhole of the side door and essayed
to turn it.

“Humph!” she muttered, twisting to no purpose; “I don't see why--This
must be the right key, because--Well, I declare, if it ain't unlocked
already! That's some of Cap'n Elkanah's doin's. For a critter as fussy
and particular about some things, he's careless enough about others.
Mercy we ain't had any tramps around here lately. Come in.”

She led the way into the dining room of the parsonage. Two of the blinds
shading the windows of that apartment had been opened when she and
Captain Daniels made their visit, and the dim gray light made the room
more lonesome and forsaken in appearance than a deeper gloom could
possibly have done. The black walnut extension table in the center,
closed to its smallest dimensions because Parson Langley had eaten alone
for so many years; the black walnut chairs set back against the wall at
regular intervals; the rag carpet and braided mats--homemade donations
from the ladies of the parish--on the green painted floor; the dolorous
pictures on the walls; “Death of Washington,” “Stoning of Stephen,” and
a still more deadly “fruit piece” committed in oils years ago by a now
deceased boat painter; a black walnut sideboard with some blue-and-white
crockery upon it; a gilt-framed mirror with another outrage in oils
emphasizing its upper half; dust over everything and the cobwebs
mentioned by Keziah draping the corners of the ceiling; this was the
dining room of the Regular parsonage as Grace saw it upon this, her
first visit. The dust and cobwebs were, in her eyes, the only novelties,
however. Otherwise, the room was like many others in Trumet, and, if
there had been one or two paintings of ships, would have been typical of
the better class.

“Phew!” exclaimed Keziah, sniffing disgustedly. “Musty and shut up
enough, ain't it? Down here in the dampness, and 'specially in the
spring, it don't take any time for a house to get musty if it ain't
aired out regular. Mr. Langley died only three months ago, but we've
been candidatin' ever since and the candidates have been boarded round.
There's been enough of 'em, too; we're awful hard to suit, I guess.
That's it. Do open some more blinds and a window. Fresh air don't hurt
anybody--unless it's spiders,” with a glare at the loathed cobwebs.

The blinds and a window being opened, more light entered the room. Grace
glanced about it curiously.

“So this is going to be your new home now, Aunt Keziah,” she observed.
“How queer that seems.”

“Um--h'm. Does seem queer, don't it? Must seem queer to you to be so
near the headquarters of everything your uncle thinks is wicked. Smell
of brimstone any, does it?” she asked with a smile.

“No, I haven't noticed it. You've got a lot of cleaning to do. I wish I
could help. Look at the mud on the floor.”

Keziah looked.

“Mud?” she exclaimed. “Why, so 'tis! How in the world did that come
here? Wet feet, sure's you're born. Man's foot, too. Cap'n Elkanah's,
I guess likely; though the prints don't look hardly big enough for his.
Elkanah's convinced that he's a great man and his boots bear him out
in it, don't they? Those marks don't look broad enough for his
understandin', but I guess he made 'em; nobody else could. Here's the
settin' room.”

She threw open another door. A room gloomy with black walnut and
fragrant with camphor was dimly visible.

“Cheerful's a tomb, ain't it?” was Mrs. Coffin's comment. “Well, we'll
get some light and air in here pretty soon. Here's the front hall and
there's the front stairs. The parlor's off to the left. We won't bother
with that yet a while. This little place in here is what Mr. Langley
used to call his 'study.' Halloa! how this door sticks!”

The door did stick, and no amount of tugging could get it open, though
Grace added her efforts to those of Keziah.

“'Tain't locked,” commented Mrs. Coffin, “cause there ain't any lock on
it. I guess it's just swelled and stuck from the damp. Though it's odd,
I don't remember--Oh, well! never mind. Let's sweeten up this settin'
room a little. Open a window or two in here. We'll have to hurry if we
want to do anything before it gets dark. I'm goin' into the kitchen to
get a broom.”

She hurried out, returning in a moment or two with a broom and a most
disgusted expression.

“How's a body goin' to sweep with that?” she demanded, exhibiting the
frayed utensil, the business end of which was worn to a stub. “More
like a shovel, enough sight. Well, there's pretty nigh dust enough for
a shovel, so maybe this'll take off the top layers. S'pose I'll ever get
this house fit for Mr. Ellery to live in before he comes? I wonder if
he's a particular man?”

Grace, who was struggling with a refractory window, paused for breath.

“I'm sure I don't know,” she replied. “I've never seen him.”

“Nor I either. Sol was so bad the Sunday he preached that I couldn't go
to meetin'. They say his sermon was fine; all about those who go down to
the sea in ships. That's what got the parish committee, I guess; they're
all old salts. I wonder if he's as fine-lookin' as they say?”

Miss Van Horne tossed her head. She was resting, prior to making another
assault on the window.

“I don't know,” she said. “And I'm sure I don't care. I don't like
good-looking ministers.”

“Deary me! You're different from most females in this town, then. And
you spoke of his good looks yourself this very mornin'. Why don't you
like the good-lookin' ones?”

“Oh, because they're always conceited and patronizing and superior--and
spoiled. I can just imagine this Mr. Ellery of yours strutting about in
sewing circle or sociables, with Annabel and Georgianna Lothrop and the
rest simpering and gushing and getting in his way: 'O Mr. Ellery, I did
so enjoy that sermon of yours Sunday!' and 'O Mr. Ellery, it was SO good
of you to come this afternoon!' Pooh! I'm glad I'm a Come-Outer. Not
that I would simper over him if I wasn't. He couldn't patronize me--not
more than once, at any rate.”

Keziah was greatly amused.

“Sakes alive!” she chuckled. “You're awfully high and mighty, seems to
me. And changeable since mornin'. You was willin' enough to talk about
him then. Now, Gracie, you mustn't take a spite against poor Mr. Ellery
just because I've got to keep house for him. 'Tain't his fault; he don't
even know it yet.”

“I don't care. I know he'll be a conceited little snippet and I shall
hate the sight of him. There! there! Auntie, you mustn't mind me. I
told you I was a selfish pig. But don't you ask me to LIKE this precious
minister of yours, because I shan't do it. He has no business to come
and separate me from the best friend I've got. I'd tell him so if he was
here--What was that?”

Both women looked at each other with startled faces. They listened
intently.

“Why, wa'n't that funny!” whispered Keziah. “I thought I heard--”

“You DID hear. So did I. What do you suppose--”

“S-s-s-h-h! It sounded from the front room somewhere. And yet there
can't be anybody in there, because--My soul! there 'tis again. I'm goin'
to find out.”

She grasped the stubby broom by the handle and moved determinedly toward
the front hall. Grace seized her by the arm.

“Don't you do it, auntie!” she whispered frantically. “Don't you DO it!
It may be a tramp.”

“I don't care. Whoever or whatever it is, it has no business in this
house, and I'll make that plain in a hurry. Just like as not it's a cat
got in when Elkanah was here this forenoon. Don't be scared, Grace. Come
right along.”

The girl came along, but not with enthusiasm. They tiptoed through the
dark, narrow hall and peered into the parlor. This apartment was dim and
still and gloomy, as all proper parlors should be, but there was no sign
of life.

“Humph!” sniffed Keziah. “It might have been upstairs, but it didn't
sound so. What did it sound like to you?”

“Like a footstep at first; and then like something falling--and
rustling. Oh, what is the matter?”

Mrs. Coffin was glancing back down the hall with a strange expression on
her face. Her grip upon the broom handle tightened.

“What IS it?” pleaded the girl in an agonized whisper.

“Grace,” was the low reply, “I've just remembered somethin'. That study
door isn't stuck from the damp, because--well, because I remember now
that it was open this mornin'.”

Before her companion could fully grasp the import of this paralyzing
fact, Keziah strode down the hall and seized the knob of the study door.

“Whoever you are in there,” she commanded sternly, “open this door and
come out this minute. Do you hear? I'm orderin' you to come out.”

There was an instant of silence; then a voice from within made answer, a
man's voice, and its tone indicated embarrassment.

“Madam,” it said, “I--I am--I will be out in another minute. If you will
just be patient--”

Grace interrupted with a smothered shriek. Keziah brandished the broom.

“Patient!” she repeated sharply. “Well, I like that! What do you mean
by--Open that door! Grace, run out and get the--the constable.”

This command was delivered entirely for effect. The office of constable
in Trumet is, generally speaking, a purely honorary one. Its occupant
had just departed for a week's cruise as mate of a mackerel schooner.
However, the effect was instantaneous. From behind the door came sounds
of hurry and commotion.

“Don't get the police on my account, please,” said the voice. “If you
will be patient until I get this--I'm just as anxious to come out as you
can be to have me. Of all the ridiculous--”

“Come out then!” snapped Keziah. “Come out! If you're so everlastin'
anxious, then come out. Patience! Of all the cheek! Why don't you come
out NOW?”

The answer was brisk and to the point. Evidently, the unknown's stock of
the virtue which he demanded of others was diminishing.

“Well, to be frank, since you insist,” snapped the voice, “I'm not fully
dressed.”

This was a staggerer. For once Keziah did not have a reply ready.
She looked at Grace and the latter at her. Then, without words, they
retreated to the sitting room.

“Shall--shall I go for help?” whispered the girl. “Hadn't we better
leave him here and--He doesn't sound like a tramp, does he. What DO you
suppose--”

“I hope you won't be alarmed,” continued the voice, broken by panting
pauses, as if the speaker was struggling into a garment. “I know this
must seem strange. You see, I came on the coach as far as Bayport
and then we lost a wheel in a rut. There was a--oh, dear! where IS
that--this is supremely idiotic!--I was saying there happened to be a
man coming this way with a buggy and he offered to help me along. He was
on his way to Wellmouth. So I left my trunk to come later and took my
valise. It rained on the way and I was wet through. I stopped at Captain
Daniels's house and the girl said he had gone with his daughter to the
next town, but that they were to stop here at the parsonage on their
way. So--there! that's right, at last!--so I came, hoping to find them.
The door was open and I came in. The captain and his daughter were not
here, but, as I was pretty wet, I thought I would seize the opportunity
to change my clothes. I had some dry--er--things in my valise and
I--well, then you came, you see, and--I assure you I--well, it was the
most embarrassing--I'm coming now.”

The door opened. The two in the sitting room huddled close together,
Keziah holding the broom like a battle-ax, ready for whatsoever might
develop. From the dimness of the tightly shuttered study stepped the
owner of the voice, a stranger, a young man, his hair rumpled, his
tie disarranged, and the buttons of his waistcoat filling the wrong
buttonholes. Despite this evidence of a hasty toilet in semidarkness, he
was not unprepossessing. Incidentally, he was blushing furiously.

“I'm--I'm sure I beg your pardon, ladies,” he stammered. “I scarcely
know what to say to you. I--”

His eyes becoming accustomed to the light in the sitting room, he was
now able to see his captors more clearly. He looked at Keziah, then at
Miss Van Horne, and another wave of blushes passed from his collar up
into the roots of his hair. Grace blushed, too, though, as she perfectly
well knew, there was no reason why she should.

Mrs. Coffin did not blush. This young fellow, although evidently not a
tramp or a burglar, had caused her some moments of distinct uneasiness,
and she resented the fact.

“Well,” she observed rather tartly, “I'm sorry you don't know what to
say, but perhaps you might begin by telling us who you are and what you
mean by makin' a--er--dressin' room of a house that don't belong to
you, just because you happened to find the door unlocked. After that
you might explain why you didn't speak up when we first come, instead
of keepin' so mighty quiet. That looks kind of suspicious to me, I must
say.”

The stranger's answer was prompt enough now. It was evident he resented
the suspicion.

“I didn't speak,” he said, “because you took me by surprise and I
wasn't, as I explained--er--presentable. Besides, I was afraid of
frightening you. I assure you I hurried as fast as I could, quietly, and
when you began to talk”--his expression changed and there was a twitch
at the corner of his mouth--“I tried to hurry still faster, hoping you
might not hear me and I could make my appearance--or my escape--sooner.
As for entering the house--well, I considered it, in a way, my house; at
least, I knew I should live in it for a time, and--”

“Live in it?” repeated Keziah. “LIVE in it? Why! mercy on us! you don't
mean to say you're--”

She stopped to look at Grace. That young lady was looking at her with
an expression which, as it expressed so very much, is beyond ordinary
powers of description.

“My name is Ellery,” said the stranger. “I am the minister--the new
minister of the Regular society.”

Then even Keziah blushed.


CHAPTER III

IN WHICH KEZIAH ASSUMES A GUARDIANSHIP


Didama would have given her eyeteeth--and, for that matter, the entire
upper set--to have been present in that parsonage sitting room when the
Rev. John Ellery made his appearance. But the fates were against Didama
that day and it was months afterwards before she, or any of what
Captain Zeb Mayo called the “Trumet Daily Advertisers,” picked up a hint
concerning it. Keziah and Grace, acquainted with the possibilities of
these volunteer news gatherers, were silent, and the Reverend John,
being in some respects a discreet young man with a brand-new ministerial
dignity to sustain, refrained from boasting of the sensation he had
caused. He thought of it very often, usually at most inconvenient times,
and when, by all the requirements of his high calling, his thought
should have been busy with different and much less worldly matters.

“I declare!” said Mrs. Thankful Payne, after the new minister's first
call at her residence, a week after his arrival at Trumet, “if Mr.
Ellery ain't the most sympathetic man. I was readin' out loud to him
the poem my cousin Huldy B.--her that married Hannibal Ellis over to
Denboro--made up when my second husband was lost to sea, and I'd just
got to the p'int in the ninth verse where it says:

          'The cruel billows crash and roar,
             And the frail craft is tempest-tossed,
           But the bold mariner thinks not of life, but says,
             “It is the fust schooner ever I lost.”'

And 'twas, too, and the last, poor thing! Well, I just got fur as this
when I looked up and there was the minister lookin' out of the window
and his face was just as red, and he kept scowlin' and bitin' his
lips. I do believe he was all but sheddin' tears. Sympathy like that I
appreciate.”

As a matter of fact, Mr. Ellery had just seen Grace Van Horne pass that
window. She had not seen him, but for the moment he was back in that
disgusting study, making a frenzied toilet in the dusk and obliged to
overhear remarks pointedly personal to himself.

Grace left the parsonage soon after the supposed tramp disclosed
his identity. Her farewells were hurried and she firmly refused Mrs.
Coffin's not too-insistent appeal to return to the house “up street”
 and have supper. She said she was glad to meet Mr. Ellery. The young
minister affirmed his delight in meeting her. Then she disappeared in
the misty twilight and John Ellery surreptitiously wiped his perspiring
forehead with his cuff, having in his late desire for the primal
necessities forgotten such a trifling incidental as a handkerchief.

“Well, Mr. Ellery,” observed Keziah, turning to her guest, or employer,
or incumbrance--at present she was more inclined to consider him the
latter--“well, Mr. Ellery, this has been kind of unexpected for all
hands, ain't it? If I'd known you was comin' to-day, I'd have done my
best to have things ready, but Cap'n Elkanah said not before day after
to-morrow and--but there, what's the use of talkin' that way? I didn't
know I was goin' to keep house for you till this very forenoon. Mercy
me, what a day this has been!”

The minister smiled rather one-sidedly.

“It's been something of a day for me,” he admitted. “I am ahead of time
and I've made a lot of trouble, I'm afraid. But yesterday afternoon I
was ready and, to tell the truth, I was eager to come and see my new
home and get at my work. So I started on the morning train. Then the
stage broke down and I began to think I was stranded at Bayport.
But this kind-hearted chap from Wellmouth--I believe that's where he
lived--happened to pull up to watch us wrestling with the smashed wheel,
and when he found I was in a hurry to get to Trumet, offered to give me
a lift. His name was--was Bird. No, that wasn't it, but it was something
like Bird, or some kind of a bird.”

“Bird?” repeated Keziah thoughtfully. “There's no Birds that I know of
in Wellmouth. Hum! Hey? 'Twa'n't Sparrow, was it?”

“That was it--Sparrow.”

“Good land! Emulous Sparrow. Run consider'ble to whiskers and tongue,
didn't he?”

“Why, yes; he did wear a beard. As for tongue--well, he was
conversational, if that's what you mean.”

“That's what I mean. If you rode twelve mile with Emulous, you must have
had an earache for the last six. Did he ask a question or two about your
personal affairs, here and there between times?”

Mr. Ellery laughed.

“Yes, one or two, between times,” he admitted.

“I shan't die of surprise. Did you tell him who you was?”

“No-o, to be honest, I didn't. He was so very anxious to find out,
that--well, I dodged. I think he believed I was going to visit Captain
Daniels.”

“Good enough! If I was governor of this state I wouldn't send any
Thanksgivin' proclamations down this way. I'd just write Em Peters and
Didama Rogers and a couple more like them and save myself the trouble.
They'd have all I wanted to proclaim spread from one end of the county
to the other in less'n a day, and a peck or two of extrys pitched in
for good measure. I'm awful glad you didn't tell Emulous you was the
minister. You see, Trumet's Trumet, and, considerin' everything, maybe
it's just as well nobody knows about your bein' shut up in that study.
Not but what 'twas all right, you know, but--”

“I understand. I'm not proud of it. Still, some one may have seen me
come here.”

“No, no, they didn't. This fog is as thick as Injun-meal puddin'. Nobody
saw you.”

“Well,” with some hesitation, “the young lady who was here with you--”

“Oh, Grace Van Horne! She's all right. She won't tell. She ain't that
kind.”

“Van Horne? That doesn't sound like a New England name.”

“'Tisn't. Her folks come from Jersey somewheres. But she was adopted
by old Cap'n Hammond, who keeps the tavern down on the bay shore by the
packet wharf, and she's lived in Trumet since she was six years old. Her
father was Teunis Van Horne, and he was mate on Cap'n Eben's coastin'
schooner and was drowned off Hatteras. Eben was saved just by the skin
of his teeth and got a broken hip and religion while it happened. His
hip's better except that he's some lame; but his religion's been more
and more feverish ever since. He's one of the head Come-Outers, and
built their chapel with his own money. You mustn't think I'm speakin'
lightly of religion, nor of Cap'n Eben, either. He's a dear good soul as
ever was, but he is the narrowest kind of Come-Outer. His creed is
just about as wide as the chapel door, and that's as narrow as the way
leadin' to salvation; it IS the way, too, so the Come-Outers think.”

“What are Come-Outers? Some new sect?”

“Sakes alive! Haven't you heard of Come-Outers? Cat's foot! Well, you'll
hear of 'em often enough from now on. They're folks who used to go to
our church, the Regular, but left because the services was too worldly,
with organs and choir singin', and the road to paradise too easy. No
need for me to tell you any more. You'll learn.”

Mr. Ellery was interested. He had been in Trumet but once before, on the
occasion when he preached his trial sermon, and of that memorable
visit remembered little except the sermon itself, the pews filled
with captains and their families, and the awe-inspiring personality of
Captain Elkanah Daniels, who had been his host. To a young man, the ink
upon his diploma from the theological school still fresh, a trial sermon
is a weighty matter, and the preaching of it weightier still. He had
rehearsed it over and over in private, had delivered it almost through
clinched teeth, and had returned to his room in the Boston boarding
house with the conviction that it was an utter failure. Captain Elkanah
and the gracious Miss Annabel, his daughter, had been kind enough to
express gratification, and their praise alone saved him from despair.
Then, to his amazement, the call had come. Of casual conversation at the
church and about the Daniels's table he could recall nothing. So there
was another religious organization in town and that made up of seceders
from his own church. He was surprised.

“Er--this Miss Van Horne?” he asked. “Is she a--Come-Outer?”

Mrs. Coffin nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “She's one. Couldn't be anything else and live with her
Uncle Eben, as she calls him.”

The minister experienced a curious feeling of disappointment and
chagrin. This young person, already predisposed to regard a clergyman of
his denomination with disapproval, had seen him for the first time under
most humiliating circumstances. And he should never have the opportunity
to regain her favor, or his own self-respect, by his efforts in the
pulpit. No matter how well he might preach she would never hear him.

“Has this Captain Hammond no children of his own?” he asked.

Keziah's answer was short for her.

“Yes,” she said. “One.”

“Ah! another daughter?”

“No, a son. Name's Nathaniel, and he's a sea captain. He's on his way
from Surinam to New York now. They expect him to make port most any
time, I believe. Now, Mr. Ellery, I s'pose we've got to arrange for your
supper and stayin' overnight; and with this house the way 'tis and all,
I don't see--”

But the minister was still interested in the Hammond household.

“This Nathaniel Hammond?” he asked. “You don't seem enthusiastic over
him. Is he a black sheep?”

This reply also was short, but emphatic.

“No,” said Keziah. “He's a fine man.”

Then she resumed her semisoliloquy concerning her companion's
entertainment.

“I guess,” she said, “that the best thing for you to do will be to go to
Cap'n Elkanah's. They'll be real glad to see you, I know, and you'll
be in time for supper, for Elkanah and Annabel have been to Denboro and
they'll be late home. They can keep you overnight, too, for it's a big
house with lots of rooms. Then, after breakfast to-morrow you come right
here. I'll have things somewhere near shipshape by then, I guess, though
the cleanin'll have to be mainly a lick and a promise until I can really
get at it. Your trunk'll be here on the coach, I s'pose, and that'll be
through early in the forenoon. Get on your hat and coat and I'll go with
you to Elkanah's.”

The young man demurred a little at thrusting himself upon the
hospitality of the Daniels's home, but Keziah assured him that his
unexpected coming would cause no trouble. So he entered the now dark
study and came out wearing his coat and carrying his hat and valise in
his hand.

“I'm sure I'm ever so much obliged to you,” he said. “And, as we are
going to be more or less together--or at least I guess as much from what
you say--would you mind if I suggest a mutual introduction. I'm John
Ellery; you know that already. And you--”

Keziah stopped short on her way to the door.

“Well, I declare!” she exclaimed. “If I ain't the very worst! Fact is,
you dropped in so ahead of time and in such a irregular sort of way,
that I never once thought of introducin' anybody; and I'm sure Grace
didn't. I'm Keziah Coffin, and Cap'n Elkanah and I signed articles, so
to speak, this mornin', and I'm goin' to keep house for you.”

She explained the reason upsetting the former arrangement by which
Lurania Phelps was to have had the position.

“So I'm to keep house for you,” she concluded. Adding: “For a spell,
anyhow.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the minister.

“Well, you might not like me. You may be particular, you know.”

“I think I can run that risk.”

“Yes; well, you can't tell. Or I might not like you. You see, I'm pretty
particular myself,” she added with a laugh.

At the Daniels's door Keziah turned her new charge over to Matilda Snow,
the hired girl. It was an indication of the family's social position
that they kept “hired help.” This was unusual in Trumet in those days,
even among the well to do.

“Good night,” said the young man, extending his hand. “Good night,
Miss--or is it Mrs.--Coffin?”

“Mrs. Good night.”

“She's a widow,” explained Matilda. “Husband died 'fore she come back
here to live. Guess he didn't amount to much; she never mentions his
name.”

“There was one thing I meant to tell her,” mused the minister,
hesitating on the threshold. “I meant to tell her not to attempt any
cleaning up at the parsonage to-night. To-morrow will do just as well.”

“Heavens to Betsy!” sniffed the “hired help,” speaking from the depths
of personal conviction, “nobody but a born fool would clean house in the
night, 'specially after the cleanin' she's been doin' at her own place.
I guess you needn't worry.”

So Mr. Ellery did not worry. And yet, until three o'clock of the
following morning, the dull light of a whale-oil lantern illuminated the
rooms of the parsonage as Keziah scrubbed and swept and washed, giving
to the musty place the “lick and promise” she had prophesied. If the
spiders had prepared those ascension robes, they could have used them
that night.

After breakfast the wagons belonging to the Wellmouth furniture dealer
drove in at the gate of the little house opposite Captain Elkanah's, and
Keziah saw, with a feeling of homesickness which she hid beneath smiles
and a rattle of conversation, the worn household treasures which had
been hers, and her brother's before her, carried away out of her life.
Then her trunks were loaded on the tailboards of the wagons, to be left
at the parsonage, and with a sigh and a quick brush of her hand across
her eyes, she locked the door for the last time and walked briskly down
the road. Soon afterwards John Ellery, under the eminently respectable
escort of Captain Elkanah and Miss Annabel, emerged from the Daniels's
gate and followed her. Mrs. Didama Rogers, thankful for a clear
atmosphere and an unobstructed view, saw them pass and recognized the
stranger. And, within a quarter of an hour, she, arrayed in a hurried
calling costume, was spreading the news along the main road. The “Trumet
Daily Advertiser” had, so to speak, issued an extra.

Thus the new minister came to Trumet and thus Keziah Coffin became his
housekeeper. She entered upon her duties with the whole-hearted energy
peculiar to her. She was used to hard work, and, as she would have said,
felt lonesome without it. She cleaned that parsonage from top to bottom.
Every blind was thrown open and the spring sunshine poured in upon the
braided mats and the rag carpets. Dust flew in clouds for the first
day or two, but it flew out of windows and doors and was not allowed to
settle within. The old black walnut furniture glistened with oil. The
mirrors and the crockery sparkled from baths of hot water and soap. Even
St. Stephen, in the engravings on the dining-room wall, was forced to a
martyrdom of the fullest publicity, because the spots and smears on the
glass covering his sufferings were violently removed. In the sleeping
rooms upstairs the feather beds were beaten and aired, the sheets and
blankets and patchwork comforters exposed to the light, and the window
curtains dragged down and left to flap on the clothesline. The smell of
musty dampness disappeared from the dining room and the wholesome odors
of outdoors and of good things cooking took its place.

Keziah, in the midst of her labors, found time to coach her employer
and companion in Trumet ways, and particularly in the ways which Trumet
expected its clergymen to travel. On the morning following his first
night in the parsonage, he expressed himself as feeling the need of
exercise. He thought he should take a walk.

“Well,” said his housekeeper from her station opposite him at the
breakfast table, “if I was you I wouldn't take too long a one. You'd
better be back here by ten, anyhow. Where was you thinkin' of goin'?”

Mr. Ellery had no particular destination in mind. He would like to see
something of the village and, perhaps, if she could give him the names
of a few of his parishioners, he might make a few calls. Keziah shook
her head.

“Gracious goodness!” she exclaimed. “I wouldn't advise you to do that.
You ain't been here long enough to make forenoon calls. If you should
catch some of the women in this town with aprons and calico on, they'd
never forgive you in this world. Wait till afternoon; they'll be
expectin' you then and they'll be rigged out in their best bibs and
tuckers. S'pose you found Annabel Daniels with her hair done up in
curl papers; what do you think would happen? Mornin's are no time
for ministers' calls. Even old Mr. Langley never made calls in the
forenoon--and he'd been here thirty-odd years.”

“All right, you know best. Much obliged for the advice. Then I'll simply
take my walk and leave the calls until later.”

“I'd be back by ten, though. Folks'll begin callin' on you by that
time.”

“They will? Doesn't the rule work both ways?”

“Not with new ministers it don't. Cat's foot! You don't s'pose Didama
Rogers and Laviny Pepper and their kind'll wait any longer'n they can
help afore they come to see what you look like, do you?”

“Well, they must have seen me when I preached here before. I remember--”

“Mercy on us! that was in meetin'. Meetin's diff'rent. All they could
say to you then was how much they liked your sermon. They say that to
every minister that comes, no matter how they may pick him to pieces
afterwards. But here they can ask you questions; about how you came to
come here and what you think of it far's you've got, and what your views
are on certain points in the creed. Likewise, who your folks were and
whether they was well off, and a few things like that. Then they'll want
to see what kind of clothes you wear and--”

“Whew!” Ellery whistled. “You're unfolding a pleasant prospect for me, I
must say. Am I supposed to be catechized on all of my private affairs?”

“Of course! A minister hasn't got any private affairs; he's a public
character. There!” she laughed, as she poured the coffee, “I mustn't
discourage you. But don't you see that every mother's son--and, for that
matter, every daughter and children's child unto the third and fourth
generation--feel that, so long as they pay pew rent or put a cent in the
collection, they own a share in you. And we always keep a watch on our
investments down this way. That's the Yankee shrewdness you read so much
about, I guess.”

The minister absently played with his spoon.

“I'm afraid you're a cynic,” he said.

“No, no, I ain't. Though sometimes, considerin' everything, I feel as
though I had excuse enough if I wanted to belong to that tribe. But
you're young. You mustn't mind my sayin' that; if you was old, of
course, I wouldn't talk about ages. But you are young and this is your
first church. So you must start right. I'm no cynic, bless you. I've got
trust in human nature left--most kinds of human nature. If I hadn't, I'd
have more money, I s'pose. Perhaps you've noticed that those who trust a
good deal are usually poor. It's all right, Mr. Ellery; you go and take
your walk. And I'll walk into that pantry closet. It'll be a good deal
like walkin' into the Slough of Despond, but Christian came out on the
other side and I guess likely I will, if the supply of soapsuds holds
out.”

When, promptly at ten o'clock, the minister returned from his walk,
he found Mrs. Rogers waiting in the sitting room. It is a prime
qualification of an alert reporter to be first on the scene of
sensation. Didama was seldom beaten. Mr. Ellery's catechism began.
Before it was over Keziah opened the door to admit Miss Pepper and
her brother. “Kyan” was nervous and embarrassed in the housekeeper's
presence. Lavinia was a glacier, moving majestically and freezing as it
moved. Keziah, however, was not even touched by the frost; she greeted
the pair cordially, and begged them to “take off their things.”

It was dinner time before the catechizers departed. The catechized came
to the table with an impaired appetite. He looked troubled.

“Don't let it worry you, Mr. Ellery,” observed Keziah calmly. “I think
I can satisfy you. Honest and true, I ain't half as bad as you might
think.”

The minister looked more troubled than before; also surprised.

“Why, Mrs. Coffin!” he cried. “Could you hear--”

“No, no! I couldn't hear nothin' in that closet except my own opinion
on dirt and dust. But if I was as deaf as the man that set on the
powder keg and dropped his pipe ashes into it, it wouldn't have made any
difference. The man said after they picked him up that they needn't have
been so rough, he'd have moved without bein' pushed if they'd have made
signs they wanted to use the keg. And if I was out in the next lot I'd
have known what you was listenin' to in that sittin' room. They hinted
that they were real sorry for you, but 'twasn't any of THEIR doin's. The
parish committee, bein' just men, was apt to make mistakes in certain
matters. Of course everything MIGHT be well enough, and if you wa'n't
TOO particular about cookin' and so on, why--Anyhow, you mustn't think
that THEY were criticisin'. 'Twas only that they took an interest
and--That was about it, wasn't it?”

“Mrs. Coffin, I--I hope you don't think I paid any attention to their
remarks--of that kind, I mean. Honestly, I did my best to stop them. I
said--”

“Man alive! I'm not worried. Why should you be? We were talkin' about
trust just now--or I was. Well, you and I'll have to take each other on
trust for a while, until we see whether we're goin' to suit. If you see
anything that I'm goin' wrong in, I wish you'd tell me. And I'll do the
same by you, if that's agreeable. You'll hear a lot of things said about
me, but if they're very bad I give you my word they ain't true. And, to
be real frank, I'll probably hear some about you, which I'll take for
what they're worth and considerin' who said 'em. That's a good wholesome
agreement, I think, for both of us. What do you think?”

John Ellery said, with emphasis, that he thought well of it. He began to
realize that this woman, with her blunt common sense, was likely to be
a pilot worth having in the difficult waters which he must navigate as
skipper of the Regular church in Trumet. Also, he began to realize that,
as such a skipper, he was most inexperienced. And Captain Daniels
had spoken highly--condescendingly but highly--of his housekeeper's
qualifications and personality. So the agreement was ratified, with
relief on his part.

The first Sunday came and with it the first sermon. He read that sermon
to Keziah on Saturday evening and she approved of it as a whole, though
she criticised some of its details.

“Don't be afraid to put in plenty of salt,” she said. “Where you've
got the Christian life and spirit written down as bein' like a quiet,
peaceful home, free from all distrust, and like that, why don't you
change it to a good safe anchorage, where the soul can ride forever
without fear of breakers or no'theasters or the dangers besettin' the
mariner on a lee shore. They'll understand that; it gets right home to
'em. There's scarcely a man or a woman in your congregation that ain't
been out of sight of land for weeks on a stretch.”

The breakfast hour on Sunday would be at nine o'clock, instead of seven,
as on week days, she told him.

“Trumet lays to bed Sunday mornin's,” she explained. “It's almost a part
of its religion, as you might say, and lived up to more conscientious
than some other parts, I'm afraid. Six days shalt thou labor and wear
comfort'ble clothes; and on the seventh you must be lazy and dress up.
Likewise you must have baked beans Saturday for supper, as we're havin'
'em, and more beans with fish balls next mornin'. That is, if you want
to be orthodox.”

The service began at eleven o'clock. At half past ten the sexton,
old Mr. Jubal Knowles, rang the “first bell,” a clanging five-minute
reminder. Twenty minutes later he began on the second and final call.
Mr. Ellery was ready--and nervous--before the first bell had finished
ringing. But Keziah, entering the sitting room dressed in black alpaca
and carrying the hymn book with her name in gilt letters on the cover,
forbade his leaving the parsonage thus early.

“I shall go pretty soon,” she said, “but you mustn't. The minister ain't
expected until the last bell's 'most done. Parson Langley used to wait
until the Winslows went in. Gaius Winslow is a widower man who lives up
to the west end of the town and he's got nine children, all boys. You'll
know 'em because they always drive down to meetin' in one carryall with
a white horse. Gaius is as punctual as a boardin'-house dinner. The
old parson used to wait until the last Winslow had toddled up the
meetin'-house steps and then he'd come out of this side door with
his sermon in his hand. It's a pretty good rule to remember and saves
watchin' the clock. Besides, it's what we've been used to, and that goes
a good ways with some folks. Good-by, Mr. Ellery. You'll see me in the
third pew from the back, on the right side, wishin' you luck just as
hard as I can.”

So, as in couples or family groups, afoot or in all sorts of vehicles,
the members of Trumet's Regular society came to the church to hear their
new minister, that functionary peeped under the parlor window shade of
the parsonage and waited, fidgetting and apprehensive, for the
Winslows. They arrived at last, and were not hard to recognize, for ten
individuals packed into one carriage are hard to overlook anywhere. As
Gaius, with the youngest in his arms, passed in at the church door, John
Ellery passed out of the parsonage gate. The last bell clanged its final
stroke, the vibrations ceased, the rustle of skirts and the sounds of
decorous coughing subsided and were succeeded by the dry rattle of the
hymn-book pages, the organ, presented by Captain Elkanah and played by
his daughter, uttered its preliminary groan, the service began.

Outside the spring breeze stirred the budding silver-leafs, the distant
breakers grumbled, the crows in the pines near Captain Eben Hammond's
tavern cawed ribald answers to the screaming gulls perched along the top
of the breakwater. And seated on one of the hard benches of the little
Come-Outer chapel, Grace Van Horne heard her “Uncle Eben,” who, as
usual, was conducting the meeting, speak of “them who, in purple and
fine linen, with organs and trumpets and vain shows, are gathered
elsewhere in this community to hear a hired priest make a mock of the
gospel.” (A-MEN!)

But John Ellery, the “hired priest,” knew nothing of this. He did know,
however, that he was the center of interest for his own congregation,
the people among whom he had been called to labor. Their praise or
criticism meant everything to him; therefore he preached for dear life.

And Keziah Coffin, in the third pew from the back, watched him intently,
her mind working in sympathetic unison with his. She was not one to
be greatly influenced by first impressions, but she had been favorably
impressed by this young fellow, and had already begun to feel that sense
of guardianship and personal responsibility which, later on, was to make
Captain Zebedee Mayo nickname the minister “Keziah's Parson.”

The sermon was a success.


CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH KEZIAH'S PARSON DECIDES TO RUN IT BLINDFOLD


On Monday afternoon the minister made a few calls. Keziah made out a
short list for him to follow, a “sort of chart of the main channel,” she
called it, “with the safe ports marked and the shoals and risky places
labeled dangerous.”

“You see,” she said, “Trumet ain't a course you can navigate with your
eyes shut. We divide ourselves into about four sets--aristocrats, poor
relations, town folks, and scum. The aristocrats are the big bugs like
Cap'n Elkanah and the other well-off sea captains, afloat or ashore.
They 'most all go to the Regular church and the parish committee is
steered by 'em. The poor relations are mainly widows and such, whose
husbands died or were lost at sea. Most of them are Regulars. The town
folks are those that stay ashore and keep store or run salt works or
somethin'. And the scum work around on odd jobs or go fishin'. So, if
you really want to be safe, you must call on the aristocrats first,
after that on the poor relations, and so on down. You won't be bothered
with scum much; they're mainly Come-Outers.”

Ellery took the list from her hand and looked it over.

“Hum!” he said musingly. “Am I supposed to recognize these--er--class
distinctions?”

“Yes. That is, not in meetin' or sewin' circle or anything like that, or
not out and out and open anywhere. But you want to cultivate a sort of
different handshake and how-dy-do for each set, so's to speak. Gush all
you want to over an aristocrat. Be thankful for advice and always SO
glad to see 'em. With the poor relations you can ease up on the gush and
maybe condescend some. Town folks expect condescension and superiority;
give it to 'em. When it comes to scum, why--well, any short kind of a
bow and a 'Mornin' 'll do for them. 'Course the Lord, in His infinite
mercy, made 'em, same as He did potato bugs, but it's necessary to keep
both bugs and them down to their proper place.”

She delivered this in the intervals between trips to the kitchen with
the dinner dishes. The minister listened with a troubled expression on
his face.

“Mrs. Coffin,” he said, “I guess I'm dull. There was a Scotch professor
at college and the fellows used to say his bump of humor was a dent.
Maybe mine isn't much better. Are you joking?”

Keziah stacked the cups and saucers.

“I ain't jokin',” she declared. “I've been a poor relation in this
village for a good while and my brother was a shoemaker and on the upper
fringe of the town-folk class. My humor bump would have to stick up like
Cannon Hill afore I could see any joke in that.”

“But you're not seriously advising me to treat a rich man differently
from a poor one?”

“Not openly different--no. But if you want to steer a perfectly SAFE
course, one that'll keep deep water under your keel the whole voyage,
why, there's your chart.”

Mr. Ellery promptly tore the “chart” into small pieces.

“I'm going out,” he said. “I shall be back by supper time.”

Mrs. Coffin eyed him grimly.

“Goin' to run it blindfold, are you?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

Her grimness disappeared and she smiled.

“I'll have your supper ready for you,” she said. “Bring back a good
appetite.”

The young man hesitated on the threshold.

“Mrs. Coffin,” he demanded, “would YOU have called only on the
aristocrats at first?”

She shook her head, smiling still.

“No,” she replied, “not me. I've always taken risks. But I didn't
know but you might be a safe sailor. It saves a lot of trouble in this
world.”

“How about the next?”

“Oh, well, perhaps even the scum may count for somethin' over there.”
 She turned to face him and her smile vanished. “Go on, Mr. Ellery,” she
said. “Go and call where you please. Far be it from me that I should
tell you to do anything else. I suppose likely you hope some day to be
a great preacher. I hope you will. But I'd enough sight rather you was a
good man than the very greatest. No reason why you can't be both. There
was a preacher over in Galilee once, so you told us yesterday, who was
just good. 'Twa'n't till years afterwards that the crowd came to realize
that he was great, too. And, if I recollect right, he chummed in with
publicans and sinners. I'm glad you tore up that fool paper of mine. I
hoped you might when I gave it to you. Now you run along, and I'll wash
dishes. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then a parson ought to eat
out of clean plates.”

As a matter of fact, the minister's calls were in the nature of a
compromise, although an unintentional one. He dropped in on Zebedee
Mayo, owner of the big house on the slope of the hill. Captain Zeb took
him up into what he called his “cupoler,” the observatory on the top of
the house, and showed him Trumet spread out like a map. The main road
was north and south, winding and twisting its rutted, sandy way. Along
it were clustered the principal houses and shops, shaded by silver-leaf
poplars, a few elms, and some willows and spruces. Each tree bent
slightly away from the northeast, the direction from which blew the
heavy winter gales. Beyond the main road were green slopes and pastures,
with swamps in the hollows, swamps which were to be cranberry bogs in
the days to come. Then the lower road, with more houses, and, farther
on, the beach, the flats--partially uncovered because it was high
tide--and the bay.

Behind the Mayo house was the crest of Cannon Hill, more hills, pastures
and swamps, scattered houses and pine groves. Then began the tumbled,
humped waste of sand dunes, and, over their ragged fringes of beach plum
and bayberry bushes, the deep blue of the wide Atlantic. The lighthouse
was a white dot and the fish shanties a blotch of brown. Along the inner
edge of the blue were scars of dancing white, the flashing teeth of
hungry shoals which had torn to pieces and swallowed many a good ship.
And, far out, dotted and sprinkled along the horizon, were sails.

“See?” said Captain Zeb, puffing still from the exertion of climbing
the ladder to the “cupoler,” for he was distinctly “fleshy.” “See? The
beacon's up. Packet come in this mornin'. There she is. See her down
there by the breakwater?”

Sure enough, the empty barrel, painted red, was hoisted to the top of
its pole on the crest of Cannon Hill. And, looking down at the bay and
following the direction of the stubby pointing finger, Ellery saw a
little schooner, with her sails lowered, lying, slightly on her side,
in a shallow pool near a long ridge of piled stones--the breakwater. A
small wharf made out from the shore and black figures moved briskly upon
it. Carts were alongside the schooner and there more dots were busy.

“Eben's pennant's flyin',” said Captain Zeb. “He always sets colors
when the packet's in. Keeps packet tavern, Eben does. That's it, that
old-fashioned, gambrel-roofed house on the rise by the wharf. Call it
'Saints' Rest,' they do now, 'cause Eben's so mighty religious.”

The minister saw the long, rambling house, with one lonely, twisted tree
in its yard, a flag flying from a pole beside it. So that was where
the Hammonds lived. And where the girl lived who was certain he was a
“conceited snippet.” Whatever he might be in reality he hoped it was not
that. “Snippet” was not in his dictionary, but he didn't like the sound
of it.

“Who owns the packet?” he asked, to make conversation.

“Zach Foster. Married Freewill Doane's daughter over to Harniss. She's
dead now.”

“A good sailor, is he?”

Captain Zeb spat in supreme disgust.

“Good farmer!” he snorted. “Zach took over the packet for a debt when
the chap that used to run her died. His dad, old man Foster, raised
garden truck at the same time mine went to sea. Both of us took after
our fathers, I guess. Anyhow, my wife says that when I die 'twill be of
salt water on the brain, and I'm sure Zach's head is part cabbage. Been
better for him if he'd stuck to his garden. However, I s'pose he does
his best.”

“They say angels can do no more.”

“Um-m. Well, Zach'll be an angel pretty soon if he keeps on cruisin'
with that old hooker as she is. 'Bijah Perry, he's mate and the only
good seaman aboard, tells me that most of the riggin's rotten and the
main topmast ain't sound, by a good deal. The old man's put off havin'
her overhauled for two reasons, one that repairs cost money, and t'other
that puttin' off is the main sheet of his gospel. When there's no rain
the roof don't leak and long's it don't blow too hard 'most any kind of
gear'll hold. That's philosophy--cabbage philosophy.”

Ellery decided that he should like Captain Zeb, although it was evident
that the old whaler had decided opinions of his own which he did not
hesitate to express. He judged that the Mayos were of the so-called
aristocracy, but undoubtedly unique specimens. He visited four more
households that afternoon. The last call was at Mrs. Thankful Payne's,
and while there, listening to the wonderful “poem,” he saw Miss Van
Horne pass the window, as has already been told. He came home to a Cape
Cod supper of scalloped clams, hot biscuits, and baked Indian pudding,
and Keziah greeted him with a cheery smile which made him feel that it
WAS home. His summary disposal of the “chart” had evidently raised him
in his housekeeper's estimation. She did not ask a single question as to
where he had been.

Next day he had a taste of Trumet's real aristocracy, the genuine
article. Captain Elkanah Daniels and his daughter made their first
formal call. The captain was majestic in high hat, fur-collared cape,
tailed coat, and carrying a gold-headed cane. Miss Annabel wore her
newest gown and bonnet and rustled as she walked. They entered the
sitting room and the lady glanced superciliously about the apartment.

“Hum--ha!” barked Captain Elkanah. “Ahem! Mr. Ellery, I trust you're
being made comfortable. The parish committee are--hum--ah--anxious that
you should be. Yes?”

The minister said that he was very comfortable indeed.

“It isn't what you've been used to, we know,” observed Miss Annabel.
“Mr. Langley, our former pastor, was a sweet old gentleman, but he was
old-fashioned and his tastes were queer, especially in art. Have you
noticed that 'fruit piece' in the dining room? Isn't it too ridiculous?”

Ellery admitted that the fruit piece was rather funny; but no doubt it
had been a gift and so

--“Yes, indeed. I guess it was a present, fast enough. Nobody would buy
such a thing. It seems strange to pa and me that, although so many of
our people have been abroad, they have such strange ideas of art. Do you
remember the beautiful marbles in the palaces at Florence, Mr. Ellery?
Of course you've seen them?”

The minister was obliged to admit that he had never been abroad.

“Oh, is that so? I've been so many times with pa that it seems almost
as if everybody was as familiar with Yurrup as I am. You remember what I
said about the marbles, pa?”

Her parent nodded.

“Hum--ha! Oh, yes, yes,” he said. “That was when I was in the
fruit-carrying trade and made a voyage to Valenchy.”

“Valencia, pa,” corrected Annabel. “And Valencia is in Spain.”

“I know it. But we went to Leghorn afterwards. I sailed to Cronstadt for
some years regular. Cronstadt is in Rooshy, Mr. Ellery.”

“Russia, pa,” snapped his daughter. Then she changed the subject to
church and parish affairs. They spoke of the sewing circle and the
reading society and the Friday-evening meetings.

“The Come-Outers are so vexed with us,” tittered Miss Annabel, “that
they won't even hold prayer meeting on the same night as ours. They have
theirs on Thursday nights and it's as good as a play to hear them shout
and sing and carry on. You'll enjoy the Come-Outers, Mr. Ellery. They're
a perfect delight.”

And as they rose to go Captain Elkanah asked:

“Is there anything you'd like done about the parsonage, Mr. Ellery?
If so, it shall be done immejitly. How are you satisfied with your
housekeeper?”

“Very well, indeed, Captain Daniels,” was the prompt reply.

“She's a character, isn't she?” giggled Annabel. “She was born here
in Trumet, but went away to New Bedford when she was young and grew up
there. Her maiden name was Hall, but while she was away she married a
man named Ansel Coffin. They didn't live together very long and weren't
happy, I guess. I don't know whose fault it was, nobody knows much
of anything about it, for that's the one thing she won't talk about.
Anyhow, the Coffin man was lost to sea, and after a while she came back
to keep house for her brother Solomon. She's an awful odd stick, but
she's a good cook, I believe; though I'm afraid you won't get the meals
people such as ourselves, who've been so much in the city, are used to.”

Ellery thought of the meals at his city boarding house and shuddered. He
was an orphan and had boarded for years. Incidentally, he had worked his
way through college. Captain Elkanah cleared his throat.

“Keziah,” he commanded. “Hum--ha! Keziah, come in here a minute.”

Keziah came in response to the call, her sewing in her hand. The
renovation of the parsonage had so far progressed that she could now
find time for a little sewing, after the dinner dishes were done.

“Keziah,” said the captain pompously, “we expect you to look out for Mr.
Ellery in every respect. The parish committee expects that--yes.”

“I'll try,” said Mrs. Coffin shortly.

“Yes. Well, that's all. You can go. We must be going, too, Mr.
Ellery. Please consider our house at your disposal any time. Be
neighborly--hum--ha!--be neighborly.”

“Yes,” purred Annabel. “DO come and see us often. Congenial society is
very scarce in Trumet, for me especially. We can read together. Are you
fond of Moore, Mr. Ellery? I just dote on him.”

The last “hum--ha” was partially drowned by the click of the gate.
Keziah closed the dining-room door.

“Mrs. Coffin,” said the minister, “I shan't trouble the parish
committee. Be sure of that. I'm perfectly satisfied.”

Keziah sat down in the rocker and her needle moved very briskly for a
moment. Then she said, without looking up:

“That's good. I own up I like to hear you say it. And I am glad there
are some things I do like about this new place of mine. Because--well,
because there's likely to be others that I shan't like at all.”

On Friday evening the minister conducted his first prayer meeting.
Before it, and afterwards, he heard a good deal concerning the
Come-Outers. He learned that Captain Eben Hammond had preached against
him in the chapel on Sunday. Most of his own parishioners seemed to
think it a good joke.

“Stir 'em up, Mr. Ellery,” counseled Lavinia Pepper. “Stir 'em up! Don't
be afraid to answer em from the pulpit and set 'em where they belong.
Ignorant, bigoted things!”

Others gave similar counsel. The result was that the young man became
still more interested in these people who seemed to hate him and all he
stood for so profoundly. He wished he might hear their side of the case
and judge it for himself. It may as well be acknowledged now that John
Ellery had a habit of wishing to judge for himself. This is not always a
politic habit in a country minister.

The sun of the following Thursday morning rose behind a curtain of fog
as dense as that of the day upon which Ellery arrived. A flat calm in
the forenoon, the wind changed about three o'clock and, beginning with
a sharp and sudden squall from the northwest, blew hard and steady. Yet
the fog still cloaked everything and refused to be blown away.

“There's rain astern,” observed Captain Zeb, with the air of authority
which belongs to seafaring men when speaking of the weather. “We'll get
a hard, driving rain afore mornin', you see. Then, if she still holds
from the northwest'ard, it'll fair off fine.”

“Goin' out in this, Mr. Ellery!” exclaimed Keziah, in amazement, as the
minister put on his hat and coat about seven that evening. “Sakes alive!
you won't be able to see the way to the gate. It's as dark as a nigger's
pocket and thicker than young ones in a poor man's family, as my father
used to say. You'll be wet through. Where in the world are you bound for
THIS night?”

The minister equivocated. He said he had been in the house all day and
felt like a walk.

“Well, take an umbrella, then,” was the housekeeper's advice. “You'll
need it before you get back, I cal'late.”

It was dark enough and thick enough, in all conscience. The main road
was a black, wet void, through which gleams from lighted windows were
but vague, yellow blotches. The umbrella was useful in the same way
that a blind man's cane is useful, in feeling the way. The two or
three stragglers who met the minister carried lanterns. One of these
stragglers was Mr. Pepper. Kyan was astonished.

“Well, I snum!” cried Kyan, raising the lantern. “If 'tain't Mr. Ellery.
Where you bound this kind of night?”

Before the minister could answer, a stately figure appeared and joined
the pair. Lavinia, of course.

“Well, Mr. Ellery,” she said. “Ain't you lost, out in this fog? Anybody
sick?”

No, no one was sick.

“That's a mercy. Goin' callin', be you?”

“No.”

“Hum! Queer weather for a walk, I call it. Won't be many out to-night,
except Come-Outers goin' to holler their lungs loose at prayer meetin'.
He, he! You ain't turned Come-Outer, have you, Mr. Ellery? You've headed
right for the chapel.”

Ellery's reply was hurried and a bit confused. He said good night and
went on.

“Laviny,” whispered the shocked Kyan, “do you think that was
a--er--polite thing to say to a parson? That about his turnin'
Come-Outer? He didn't make much answer, seemed to me. You don't think he
was mad, do ye?”

“I don't care if he was,” snorted Miss Pepper. “He could tell a body
where he was goin' then. Nobody can snub me, minister or not. I think
he's kind of stuck-up, if you want to know, and if he is, he'll get took
down in a hurry. Come along, don't stand there with your mouth open like
a flytrap. I'd like to know what he was up to. I've a precious good mind
to follow him; would if 'twa'n't so much trouble.”

She didn't. Yet, if she had, she would have deemed the trouble worth
while. For John Ellery stumbled on through the mist till he reached the
“Corners” where the store was located and the roads forked. There, he
turned to the right, into the way called locally “Hammond's Turn-off.”
 A short distance down the “Turn-off” stood a small, brown-shingled
building, its windows alight. Opposite its door, on the other side of
the road, grew a spreading hornbeam tree surrounded by a cluster of
swamp blackberry bushes. In the black shadow of the hornbeam Mr. Ellery
stood still. He was debating in his mind a question: should he or should
he not enter that building?

As he stood there, groups of people emerged from the fog and darkness
and passed in at the door. Some of them he had seen during his fortnight
in Trumet. Others were strangers to him. A lantern danced and wabbled up
the “Turn-off” from the direction of the bay shore and the packet wharf.
It drew near, and he saw that it was carried by an old man with long
white hair and chin beard, who walked with a slight limp. Beside him was
a thin woman wearing a black poke bonnet and a shawl. In the rear of
the pair came another woman, a young woman, judging by the way she was
dressed and her lithe, vigorous step. The trio halted on the platform of
the building. The old man blew out the lantern. Then he threw the door
open and a stream of yellow light poured over the group.

The young woman was Grace Van Horne. The minister recognized her at
once. Undoubtedly, the old man with the limp was her guardian, Captain
Eben Hammond, who, by common report, had spoken of him, Ellery, as a
“hired priest.”

The door closed. A few moments thereafter the sound of a squeaky
melodeon came from within the building. It wailed and quavered and
groaned. Then, with a suddenness that was startling, came the first
verse of a hymn, sung with tremendous enthusiasm:

          “Oh, who shall answer when the Lord shall call
             His ransomed sinners home?”

The hallelujah chorus was still ringing when the watcher across the
street stepped out from the shadow of the hornbeam. Without a pause he
strode over to the platform. Another moment and the door had shut behind
him.

The minister of the Trumet Regular church had entered the Come-Outer
chapel to attend a Come-Outer prayer meeting!


CHAPTER V

IN WHICH THE PARSON CRUISES IN STRANGE WATERS


The Come-Outer chapel was as bare inside, almost, as it was without.
Bare wooden walls, a beamed ceiling, a raised platform at one end with
a table and chairs and the melodeon upon it, rows of wooden settees for
the congregation--that was all. As the minister entered, the worshipers
were standing up to sing. Three or four sputtering oil lamps but dimly
illumined the place and made recognition uncertain.

The second verse of the hymn was just beginning as Ellery came in. Most
of the forty or more grown people in the chapel were too busy wrestling
with the tune to turn and look at him. A child here and there in the
back row twisted a curious neck but twisted back again as parental
fingers tugged at its ear. The minister tiptoed to a dark corner and
took his stand in front of a vacant settee.

The man whom Ellery had decided must be Captain Eben Hammond was
standing on the low platform beside the table. A quaint figure,
patriarchal with its flowing white hair and beard, puritanical with its
set, smooth-shaven lips and tufted brows. Captain Eben held an open hymn
book back in one hand and beat time with the other. He wore brass-bowed
spectacles well down toward the tip of his nose. Swinging a heavy,
stubby finger and singing in a high, quavering voice of no particular
register, he led off the third verse:

          “Oh, who shall weep when the roll is called
             And who shall shout for joy?”

The melodeon and the hymn book were in accord as to the tune, but
Captain Eben and the various members of the congregation seemed to have
a desire to improvise. They sang with spirit, however, and the rhythmic
pat of feet grew louder and louder. Here and there men and women were
swaying and rocking their bodies in time to the music. The chorus for
each verse was louder than the one preceding it.

Another hymn was given out and sung. And another and still another. The
windows rattled. The patting grew to a steady “thump! thump!” Momentary
pauses between lines were punctuated by hallelujahs and amens. Standing
directly in front of the minister was a six-foot, raw-boned individual
whose clothes smelled strongly of fish, and whose hands, each swung
at the end of an exposed five inches of hairy red wrist, looked like
flippers. At the end of the third hymn this personage sprang straight up
into the air, cracked the heels of a pair of red cowhide boots together,
and whooped: “Glory be! Send the PAOWER!” in a voice like the screech
of a northeast gale. Mr. Ellery, whom this gymnastic feat had taken by
surprise, jumped in sympathy, although not as high.

The singing over, the worshipers sat down. Captain Eben took a
figured handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. The thin,
nearsighted young woman who had been humped over the keyboard of the
melodeon, straightened up. The worshipers relaxed a little and began to
look about.

Then the captain adjusted his spectacles and opened a Bible, which he
took from the table beside him. Clearing his throat, he announced that
he would read from the Word, tenth chapter of Jeremiah:

“'Thus saith the Lord. Learn not the way of the heathen, and be not
dismayed at the signs of heaven; for the heathen are dismayed at them.

“'For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of
the forest, the work of the hands of the workmen, with the ax.'”

He read in a measured singsong, stopping occasionally to hold the book
in a better light and peering at the fine print through his spectacles.
And as he read, there was a sudden rustle on one of the back benches. A
child had turned, stared, and pulled at its mother's sleeve. The rustle
grew and spread.

Captain Eben drawled on to the twentieth verse:

“'My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken: my children are
gone forth from me, and they are not: there is none to stretch forth my
tent any more, and to set up my curtains!

“'For the pastors are become brutish and have not sought the Lord:
therefore they shall not prosper, and--'”

“A-MEN!”

The shout came from the second bench from the front, where Ezekiel
Bassett, clam digger and fervent religionist, was always to be found on
meeting nights. Ezekiel was the father of Susannah B. Bassett, “Sukey
B.” for short, who played the melodeon. He had been, by successive
seizures, a Seventh Day Baptist, a Second Adventist, a Millerite, a
Regular, and was now the most energetic of Come-Outers. Later he was to
become a Spiritualist and preside at table-tipping seances.

Ezekiel's amen was so sudden and emphatic that it startled the reader
into looking up. Instead of the faces of his congregation, he found
himself treated to a view of their back hair. Nearly every head
was turned toward the rear corner of the room, there was a buzz of
whispering and, in front, many men and women were standing up to look.
Captain Eben was scandalized.

“Well!” he exclaimed. “Is this a prayer meetin' or--or--what? Brethren
and sisters, I must say--”

Ezekiel Bassett stepped forward and whispered in his ear. The
captain's expression of righteous indignation changed to one of blank
astonishment. He, too, gazed at the dark corner. Then his lips tightened
and he rapped smartly on the table.

“Brethren and sisters,” he thundered, in the voice which, of old, had
enforced obedience aboard his coasting schooner, “remember this is the
house of the Lord. Be reverent!”

He waited until every eye had swung about to meet his. Then he regarded
his abashed but excited hearers with a steady and prolonged stare.

“My friends,” he said, “let us bow in prayer.”

John Ellery could have repeated that prayer, almost word for word, years
after that night. The captain prayed for the few here gathered together:
Let them be steadfast. Let them be constant in the way. The path they
were treading might be narrow and beset with thorns, but it was the path
leading to glory.

“Scoffers may sneer,” he declared, his voice rising; “they may make a
mock of us, they may even come into Thy presence to laugh at us, but
theirs is the laugh that turns to groanin'. O Lord, strengthen us
to-night to speak what's in our hearts, without fear.” (“A-men!”) “To
prophesy in Thy name! To bid the mockers and them that dare--dare to
profane this sanctuary be careful. Hired singers and trumpets and vain
shows we have not” (“Thank the Lord! Amen!”), “but the true faith and
the joy of it we do have.” (“Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Glory!”)

And so on, his remarks becoming more personal and ever pointing like
a compass needle to the occupant of that seat in the corner. The
minister's determination to attend a Come-Outer meeting, though it had
reached the sticking point only a half hour before, was the result of
considerable deliberation. He had argued with himself and had made up
his mind to find out for himself just what these people did. He was
finding out, certainly. His motives were good and he had come with no
desire to scoff, but, for the life of him, he could not help feeling
like a criminal. Incidentally, it provoked him to feel that way.

“O Lord,” prayed Captain Hammond, the perspiration in beads on his
forehead, “Thou hast said that the pastors become brutish and have not
sought Thee and that they shan't prosper. Help us tonight to labor with
this one that he may see his error and repent in sackcloth and ashes.”

They sang once more, a hymn that prophesied woe to the unbeliever.
Then Ezekiel Bassett rose to “testify.” The testimony was mainly to the
effect that he was happy because he had fled to the ark of safety while
there was yet time.

“I found out,” he shouted, “that fancy music and--ah--and--ah--sot
sermons and fine duds and suchlike wa'n't goin' to do ME no good.
I needed somethin' else. I needed good times in my religion”
 (“Hallelujah!”) “and I've found 'em right here. Yes, sir! right here.
And I say this out loud,” turning to glare at the intruder, “and I don't
care who comes to poke fun at me for sayin' it.” (“Amen!”)

A sharp-nosed female followed Mr. Bassett. She spoke with evident
feeling and in a voice that trembled and shook when her emotion carried
it aloft. SHE'D had enough of high-toned religion. Yes, and of them that
upheld it. When her brother Simeon was took bad with phthisic, “wheezin'
like a busted bellerses” and 'twas “up and down, trot, trot, trot,” to
fetch and carry for him day in and night out, did the folks from the
Reg'lar church help her? She guessed NOT. The only one that came nigh
her was Laviny Pepper, and she came only to gas and gabble and find out
things that wa'n't none of her business. What help she got was from
a Come-Outer, from Eben Hammond, bless his good soul! (“Amen!”) That
phthisic settled her for Reg'larism. Yes, and for them that preached it,
too. So there!

Captain Eben called for more testimony. But the testifiers were, to use
the old minstrel joke, backward in coming forward that evening. At an
ordinary meeting, by this time, the shouts and enthusiasm would have
been at their height and half a dozen Come-Outers on their feet at once,
relating their experiences and proclaiming their happiness. But tonight
there was a damper; the presence of the leader of the opposition cast a
shadow over the gathering. Only the bravest attempted speech. The others
sat silent, showing their resentment and contempt by frowning glances
over their shoulders and portentous nods one to the other.

“Come, brethren,” commanded the captain sharply; “we are waitin' to hear
you. Are you afraid? If your faith is real, nothin' nor nobody should
keep you from cryin' it out loud. Now, if ever, is the accepted time.
Speak up for the spirit that's in you.”

An elderly man, grave and quiet, arose and said a few words, dignified
and solemn words of prayer and thankfulness for the comfort this little
society of true believers had been to him. Ellery realized that here
was another sort of Come-Outer, one of the Hammond type. Evidently, they
were not all like Ezekiel and the shrill-voiced woman.

Then, from the settee in front of him, rose the lengthy and fishy person
with the cowhide boots and enormous hands. His name was Josiah Badger
and he was, according to Trumet's estimate, “a little mite lackin' in
his top riggin'.” He stuttered, and this infirmity became more and more
apparent as he grew eloquent.

“I--I ain't afraid,” he proclaimed. “They can call me a C-C-Come-Outer
all they want to. I--I don't care if they do. Let 'em, I say; l-let 'em!
They can p-p-poke their fun and p-p-p-pup-pup-poke it, but I tell 'em
to h-heave ahead and p-pup-pup-POKE. When I used to g-go to their old
Reg'lar meetin' house, all I done was to go to sleep. But I don't go
to sleep here, glory hallelujah! No, sir! There's too much b-b-blessed
noise and we have too g-good times to g-go to sleep here. That old
K-Kyan Pepper called me t-town f-fool t'other day. T-tut-town fool's
what he called me. Says I to him, says I: 'You-you-y-you ain't got spunk
enough to be a fool,' I says, 'unless Laviny says you c-can be. You old
Reg'lar p-p-pepper shaker, you!”

By this time tee-hees from the children and chuckles from some of the
older members interfered with Mr. Badger's fervent but jerky discourse.
Captain Eben struck the table smartly.

“Silence!” he thundered. “Silence! Brother Badger, I beg your pardon for
'em. Go on!”

But Josiah's train of thought had evidently been derailed by the
interruption.

“I--I--I cal'late that's about all,” he stammered and sat down.

The captain looked over the meeting.

“I'm ashamed,” he said, “ashamed of the behavior of some of us in the
Lord's house. This has been a failure, this service of ours. We have
kept still when we should have justified our faith, and allowed the
presence of a stranger to interfere with our duty to the Almighty. And
I will say,” he added, his voice rising and trembling with indignation,
“to him who came here uninvited and broke up this meetin', that it would
be well for him to remember the words of Scriptur', 'Woe unto ye, false
prophets and workers of iniquity.' Let him remember what the Divine
wisdom put into my head to read to-night: 'The pastors have become
brutish and have not sought the Lord; therefore they shall not
prosper.'”

“Amen!” “Amen!” “Amen!” “So be it!” The cries came from all parts of the
little room. They ceased abruptly, for John Ellery was on his feet.

“Captain Hammond,” he said, “I realize that I have no right to speak in
this building, but I must say one word. My coming here to-night may have
been a mistake; I'm inclined to think it was. But I came not, as you
seem to infer, to sneer or to scoff; certainly I had no wish to disturb
your service. I came because I had heard repeatedly, since my arrival
in this town, of this society and its meetings. I had heard, too, that
there seemed to be a feeling of antagonism, almost hatred, against me
among you here. I couldn't see why. Most of you have, I believe, been at
one time members of the church where I preach. I wished to find out for
myself how much of truth there was in the stories I had heard and to
see if a better feeling between the two societies might not be brought
about. Those were my reasons for coming here to-night. As for my being
a false prophet and a worker of iniquity”--he smiled--“well, there is
another verse of Scripture I would call to your attention: 'Judge not,
that ye be not judged.'”

He sat down. There was silence for a moment and then a buzz of
whispering. Captain Eben, who had heard him with a face of iron
hardness, rapped the table.

“We will sing in closin',” he said, “the forty-second hymn. After which
the benediction will be pronounced.”

The Regular minister left the Come-Outers' meeting with the unpleasant
conviction that he had blundered badly. His visit, instead of tending
toward better understanding and more cordial relationship, had
been regarded as an intrusion. He had been provoked into a public
justification, and now he was quite sure that he would have been more
politic to remain silent. He realized that the evening's performance
would cause a sensation and be talked about all over town. The
Come-Outers would glory in their leader's denunciation of him, and his
own people would perhaps feel that it served him right. If he had only
told Mrs. Coffin of what he intended to do. Yet he had not told her
because he meant to do it anyhow. Altogether it was a rather humiliating
business.

So that old bigot was the Van Horne girl's “uncle.” It hardly seemed
possible that she, who appeared so refined and ladylike when he met her
at the parsonage, should be a member of that curious company. When
he rose to speak he had seen her in the front row, beside the thin,
middle-aged female who had entered the chapel with Captain Hammond and
with her. She was looking at him intently. The lamp over the speaker's
table had shone full on her face and the picture remained in his memory.
He saw her eyes and the wavy shadows of her hair on her forehead.

He stepped off the platform, across the road, out of the way of
homeward-bound Come-Outers, and stood there, thinking. The fog was
as heavy and wet as ever; in fact, it was almost a rain. The wind
was blowing hard from the northwest. The congregation dispersed in
chattering groups, their lanterns dipping and swinging like fireflies.
The chatter dealt entirely with one subject--himself. He heard his name
mentioned at least twenty times. Out of the gusty, dripping blackness
came Mr. Badger's voice.

“By time!” crowed Josiah, “he was took down a few p-p-pup-pegs, wa'n't
he! My! how Eben did g-gi-gi-give it to him. He looked toler'ble white
under the gills when he riz up to heave out his s-s-sus-sassy talk. And
foolish, too. I cal'late I won't be the only town fuf-fuf-fool from now
on. He! he!”

The noises died away in the distance. Within the chapel the tramp
of heavy boots sounded as the lights were blown out, one by one. The
minister frowned, sighed, and turned homeward. It is not pleasant to be
called a fool, even by a recognized member of the fraternity.

He had taken but a few steps when there was a rustle in the wet grass
behind him.

“Mr. Ellery,” whispered a voice, “Mr. Ellery, may I speak to you just a
moment?”

He wheeled in surprise.

“Why! why, Miss Van Horne!” he exclaimed. “Is it you?”

“Mr. Ellery,” she began, speaking hurriedly and in a low voice, “I--I
felt that I must say a word to you before--”

She paused and glanced back at the chapel. Ezekiel Bassett, the janitor,
having extinguished the last lamp, had emerged from the door and was
locking up. In another moment he clumped past them in the middle of the
road, the circle of light from his lantern just missing them as they
stood in the grass at the side under the hornbeam and blackberry bushes.
He was alone; Sukey B. had gone on before, other and younger masculine
escort having been providentially provided.

Mr. Bassett was out of hearing before Grace finished her sentence. The
minister was silent, waiting and wondering.

“I felt,” she said, “that I must see you and--explain. I am SO sorry you
came here to-night. Oh, I wish you hadn't. What made you do it?”

“I came,” began Ellery, somewhat stiffly, “because I--well, because I
thought it might be a good thing to do. As I said--”

“Yes, I know. But it wasn't. It was so--so--”

“So foolish. Thank you, I'm aware of it. I've heard myself called a
fool already since I left your church. Not that I needed to hear it. I
realize the fact.”

There was a bitterness in his tone, unmistakable. And a little laugh
from his companion did not tend to soothe his feelings.

“Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps it is funny. I did not find it so. Good
evening.”

This was priggish, but it must be borne in mind that John Ellery was
very, very fresh from the theological school, where young divines are
taught to take themselves seriously. He was ashamed of himself as soon
as he said it, which proved that his case was not beyond hope.

The girl detained him as he was turning away.

“I wasn't laughing at that,” she said. “I know who called you that--that
name. It was Josiah Badger, and he really is one, you know. I was
thinking of his testimony in meeting and how he called Ky--Abishai--a
pepper shaker. That was ridiculous enough, but it reminded me of
something else about Mr. Pepper, and I HAD to laugh. It wasn't at you,
truly.”

So the minister begged her pardon; also he remained where he was, and
heard the drops from the tree patter hollow on his hat.

“I came after you,” went on Grace rapidly and with nervous haste,
“because I felt that you ought not to misjudge my uncle for what he said
to-night. He wouldn't have hurt your feelings for the world. He is a
good man and does good to everybody. If you only knew the good he does
do, you wouldn't--you wouldn't DARE think hardly of him.”

She stamped her foot in the wet grass as she said it. She was evidently
in earnest. But Ellery was not in the mood to be greatly impressed
by Eben Hammond's charity or innate goodness. The old tavern keeper's
references to himself were too fresh in his mind. “False prophet” and
“worker of iniquity!”

“I'm not judging your uncle,” he declared. “It seemed to me that the
boot was on the other leg.”

“I know, but you do judge him, and you mustn't. You see, he thought
you had come to make fun of him--and us. Some of the Regular people do,
people who aren't fit to tie his shoes. And so he spoke against you.
He'll be sorry when he thinks it over. That's what I came to tell you. I
ask your pardon for--for him.”

“Why--why, that's all right. I think I understood--”

“I'm not asking it because he's a Come-Outer and you're a Regular
minister. He isn't ashamed of his religion. Neither am I. I'm a
Come-Outer, too.”

“Yes. I--I supposed you were.”

“Yes, I am. There, good night, Mr. Ellery. All I ask is that you don't
think too hardly of uncle. He didn't mean it.”

She turned away now, and it was the minister who detained her.

“I've been thinking,” he said slowly, for in his present state of mind
it was a hard thing to say, “that perhaps I ought to apologize, too.
I'm afraid I did disturb your service and I'm sorry. I meant well,
but--What's that? Rain?”

There was no doubt about it; it was rain and plenty of it. It came in
a swooping downpour that beat upon the trees and bushes and roared upon
the roof of the chapel. The minister hurriedly raised his umbrella.

“Here!” he cried, “let me--Miss Van Horne! Where are you?”

The answer came from a short distance down the “Turn-off.”

“Good night,” called the girl. “I must run.”

Evidently, she WAS running. Therefore the young man ran after her. He
caught up with her in a moment, in spite of some stumbles over the rough
road.

“Here!” he commanded, “you must take the umbrella. Really, you must. You
haven't one and you'll be wet through.”

She pushed the umbrella aside.

“No, no,” she answered. “I don't need it; I'm used to wet weather; truly
I am. And I don't care for this hat; it's an old one. You have a long
way to go and I haven't. Please, Mr. Ellery, I can't take it.”

“Very well,” was the sternly self-sacrificing reply, “then I shall
certainly go with you.”

“But I don't wish you to.”

“I can't help that. I'm not going to let you go unprotected through
this flood. Especially as you might have been at home before this if you
hadn't stopped to speak with me.”

“But you mustn't.”

“I shall.”

Here was the irresistible force and the immovable object. They stood
stock still in the middle of the road, while the rain drops jumped as
they struck the umbrella top. The immovable object, being feminine,
voiced the unexpected.

“All right,” she said; “then I suppose I shall have to take it.”

“What?”

“The umbrella. I'm sorry, and you'll get dreadfully wet, but it's your
own fault.”

He could feel her hand near his own on the handle. He did not relinquish
his grasp.

“No,” he said. “I think, on the whole, that that is unreasonable. I
SHOULD get wet and, though I don't mind it when it is necessary, I--”

“Well?” rather sharply, “what are you going to do?”

“Go with you as far as your gate. I'm sorry, if my company is
distasteful, but--”

He did not finish the sentence, thinking, it may be, that she might
finish it for him. But she was silent, merely removing her hand from the
handle. She took a step forward; he followed, holding the umbrella above
her head. They plashed on, without speaking, through the rapidly forming
puddles.

Presently she stumbled and he caught her arm to prevent her falling. To
his surprise he felt that arm shake in his grasp.

“Why, Miss Van Horne!” he exclaimed in great concern, “are you crying?
I beg your pardon. Of course I wouldn't think of going another step with
you. I didn't mean to trouble you. I only--If you will please take this
umbrella--”

Again he tried to transfer the umbrella and again she pushed it away.

“I--I'm not crying,” she gasped; “but--oh, dear! this is SO funny!”

Mr. Ellery gazed blankly at her through the rain-streaked dark. This was
the most astonishing young person he had met in his twenty-three years
of worldly experience.

“Funny!” he repeated. “Well, perhaps it is. Our ideas of fun seem to
differ. I--”

“Oh, but it IS so funny. You don't understand. What do you think your
congregation would say if they knew you had been to a Come-Outers'
meeting and then insisted on seeing a Come-Outer girl home?”

John Ellery swallowed hard. A vision of Captain Elkanah Daniels and the
stately Miss Annabel rose before his mind's eye. He hadn't thought of
his congregation in connection with this impromptu rescue of a damsel in
distress.

“Ha, ha!” he laughed mournfully. “I guess it is rather funny, after
all.”

“It certainly is. Now will you leave me and go back to your parsonage?”

“Not unless you take the umbrella.”

“Very well. It is a beautiful evening for a walk, don't you think so?
Mr. Ellery, I'm afraid we shan't have you with us in Trumet very long.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, because you're so very, very original. Are your sermons that way,
too? Captain Elkanah doesn't like his ministers to be too original.”

The minister set his teeth. At that moment he felt an intense desire
to bid the Daniels family mind their own business. Then another thought
struck him.

“Possibly your Uncle Eben might be somewhat--er--surprised if he
knew you were with me. Perhaps he might have something to say on the
subject.”

“I guess he would. We shall know very soon. I ran away and left him with
Mrs. Poundberry, our housekeeper. He doesn't know where I am. I wonder
he hasn't turned back to look for me before this. We shall probably meet
him at any moment.”

She seemed to enjoy the prospect of the meeting. Ellery wondered what on
earth he should say to Captain Hammond--that is, provided he was allowed
to say anything.

Suddenly a heavier gust of rain and wind beat upon them. The minister
struggled with the umbrella. The gust passed and with it the fog. An
instant before it had been all about them, shutting them within inky
walls. Now it was not. Through the rain he could see the shadowy
silhouettes of bushes at the road side. Fifty yards away the lighted
windows of the Hammond tavern gleamed yellow. Farther on, over a ragged,
moving fringe of grass and weeds, was a black flat expanse--the bay. And
a little way out upon that expanse twinkled the lights of a vessel. A
chain rattled. Voices shouting exultingly came to their ears.

“Why!” exclaimed Grace in excited wonder, “it's the packet! She was due
this morning, but we didn't expect her in till to-morrow. How did she
find her way in the fog? I must tell uncle.”

She started to run toward the house. The minister would have followed
with the umbrella, but she stopped him.

“No, Mr. Ellery,” she urged earnestly. “No, please don't. I'm all right
now. Thank you. Good night.”

A few steps farther on she turned.

“I hope Cap'n Elkanah won't know,” she whispered, the laugh returning to
her voice. “Good night.”

Ellery stood still in the rain and watched her. He saw her pass the
lighted windows and open a door. Into the yellow radiance she flashed
and disappeared. A minute more and the bulky form of Eben Hammond,
lantern in hand, a sou'wester on his head and his shoulders working
themselves into an oilskin coat, burst out of the door and hurriedly
limped down toward the shore. On the threshold, framed in light, stood
his ward, gazing after him. And the minister gazed at her.

From the bay came the sound of oars in row-locks. A boat was approaching
the wharf. And suddenly from the boat came a hail.

“Halloo! Ahoy, dad! Is that you?”

There was an answering shout from the wharf; a shout of joy. Then
a rattle of oars and a clamor of talk. And Grace still stood in the
doorway, waiting.

The lantern bobbed up the slope. As it reached the tavern gateway, the
minister saw that it was now carried by a tall, active man, who walked
with a seaman's stride and roll. Captain Eben was close beside him,
talking excitedly.

They entered the yard.

“Grace! Grace!” screamed Captain Eben. “Gracie, girl, look who's come!
Look!”

The tall man ran forward.

“Hi, Grace!” he cried in a deep, hearty voice. “Is that you? Ain't you
got a word for your old messmate?”

The girl stepped out into the rain.

“Why! why, NAT!” she cried.

The big man picked her up bodily in his arms and carried her into the
house. Captain Eben followed and the door closed.

John Ellery picked his way homeward through the puddles and the pouring
rain.

He found Keziah in the sitting room, seated by the table, evidently
writing a letter. She looked tired and grave--for her.

“Well!” she exclaimed as he entered. “I guess you're soppin' now, sartin
sure. There's a light in your room. Take off your wet things and throw
'em down to me, and I'll dry 'em in the kitchen. Better leave your boots
here now and stand that umbrella in the sink. The kettle's on the stove;
you'd better have somethin' hot--ginger tea or somethin'. I told you not
to go out such a night as this. Where in the world have you been?”

The minister said he would tell her all about it in the morning. Just
now he thought he had better go up and take off his wet clothes. He
declined the ginger tea, and, after removing his boots, went upstairs to
his room.

Keziah dipped her pen in the ink and went on with her letter.

“I inclose ten dollars,” she wrote. “It is all I can send you now. More
than I ought to afford. Goodness knows why I send anything. You don't
deserve it. But while I live and you do I can't--”

The minister called from the landing.

“Here is my coat,” he said. “The cuffs and lower part of the sleeves are
pretty wet. By the way, the packet came in to-night. They didn't expect
her so soon on account of the fog. There was a passenger aboard whom I
think must be that Nathaniel Hammond you told me of.”

Keziah's pen stopped. The wet coat struck the hall floor with a soft
thump. The tick of the clock sounded loud in the room. A sheet of
wind-driven rain lashed the windows.

“Did you hear?” called the minister. “I said that Nathaniel Hammond,
Captain Eben's son, came on the packet. I didn't meet him, but I'm sure
it was he. Er--Mrs. Coffin, are you there? Do you hear me?”

The housekeeper laid the pen down beside the unfinished letter.

“Yes,” she said, “I hear you. Good night.”

For minutes she sat there, leaning back in her chair and staring at the
wall. Then she rose, went into the hall, picked up the coat, and took it
out into the kitchen, where she hung it on the clotheshorse by the cook
stove. After a while she returned to the table and took up the pen. Her
face in the lamplight looked more tired and grave than ever.

It was a long time before John Ellery fell asleep. He had much to think
of--of the morrow, of the talk his rash visit to the chapel would cause,
of the explanation he must make to Captain Elkanah and the rest. But the
picture that was before his closed eyes as he lay there was neither of
Captain Elkanah nor the parish committee; it was that of a girl, with
dark hair and a slim, graceful figure, standing in a lighted doorway and
peering out into the rain.


CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH OLD FRIENDS MEET


When Ellery came down to breakfast the rain was over, the wind had
gone down, and the morning sunshine was pouring in at the dining-room
windows. Outside the lilacs were in bud, the bluebirds were singing, and
there was a sniff of real spring in the air. The storm was at an end and
yet the young minister was conscious of a troublesome feeling that, for
him, it was just beginning.

However, he had determined while dressing to make a clean breast of it
to his housekeeper--a nominally clean breast, that is. There were some
things he would not tell her, some that he would not speak of to anyone,
the picture in the doorway for instance. True, it was only a picture
and of no moment, but it was pleasant to remember. One of the very few
pleasant things connected with the previous evening.

So, as they sat opposite each other at the table, he began his
confession. The muffins scorched in the oven and the coffeepot boiled
over as he told his story, for Keziah was too much interested to think
of trifles. Interested and astounded, for, since Come-Outers had been
Come-Outers and the split in the society took place, no Regular minister
had crossed the threshold of a seceder's dwelling, much less attended
their services and walked home with a member of their congregation. She
knew what this amazing procedure was likely to mean, if her parson did
not.

“Well!” she exclaimed when the recital was finished. “Well!”

“I--I'm afraid I was too hasty,” observed Mr. Ellery thoughtfully.
“Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have done it.”

“Perhaps 'twould. Yes, I wouldn't wonder a mite.”

“It will be talked about some, I suppose. Don't you think so?”

“Some, yes.”

“I'm afraid some of my own people may think it queer.”

“Queer! Say, Mr. Ellery, you remind me of a half-breed Portugee
feller--half Portugee and a half Indian--that went to sea with my
father, back in the old days. He hardly ever spoke a word, mainly
grunted and made signs. One day he and another fo'mast hand went aloft
in a calm to do somethin' to the tops'l. The half-breed--they called him
Billy Peter and he always called himself that--was out on the end of
the yard, with his foot on the rope underneath, I forget the name of it,
when the tarred twine he had for a shoe string caught. Tryin' to get
it loose it broke sudden, his shoe pulled off, he lost his balance and
fell. He grabbed at the yard, saved himself for a second, fell again,
grabbed the next yard, then a rope and so on down, grabbin' and pullin'
all the way. First his shoe hit the deck, then his sheath knife, then
a piece of rope, and finally himself, landin' right on top of the Irish
cook who was goin' aft from the galley with father's dinner.

“There was the greatest racket you ever heard, pans fallin', dishes
smashin', men yellin', and the cook swearin'. Father run on deck,
thinkin' the ship was dismasted. He found the cook and Billy Peter
sittin' in the middle of the mess, lookin' at each other. Neither was
hurt a mite. The mates and the crew, part of 'em, was standin' starin'
at the pair.

“'For Heaven sakes!' says father; 'what happened?'

“The half-breed looked up and rubbed his head. 'Ugh!' says he, 'Billy
Peter bust his shoe string.'

“The cook, his name was O'Neill, looked at him disgusted. 'Well,
begorra!' says he, 'Billy Peter, you don't exaggerate none, do ye! It's
a good thing BOTH of 'em didn't bust or we'd have foundered.'

“You remind me of Billy Peter, Mr. Ellery, you don't exaggerate. Queer?
Some folks think your goin' to that meetin' last night QUEER? At this
moment one half of Trumet is talkin' about it and runnin' out to tell
the other half. I guess I'd better hurry up with this breakfast. We're
goin' to have callers.”

Strange to say, however, this prophecy of early morning visitors did
not prove true. Nine o'clock, then ten, and no visitor came to the
parsonage. Mrs. Coffin affirmed that she did not understand it. Where
was Didama? Where Lavinia Pepper? Had the “Trumet Daily Advertiser”
 suspended publication?

At half past ten the gate slammed. Keziah peered from the window.

“Humph!” she ejaculated. “Here comes Elkanah and he's got storm signals
set, by the looks. He's comin' after you, Mr. Ellery.”

“Very well,” was the calm reply; “let him come.”

“What are you goin' to say to him?”

“Nothing, except that I did what I considered right at the time. Show
him into the study, Mrs. Coffin, please.”

Captain Daniels marched to the dining-room door, his gold-headed cane
marking time like a drumbeat. He nodded curtly to Keziah, who answered
the knock, and stepped across the threshold.

“Hum--ha!” he barked. “Is the minister--hum--ha! is Mr. Ellery in?”

“Yes, he's in.”

“Tell him I want to see him.”

The housekeeper announced the visitor.

“He's as sour as a skimmin' of last week's milk,” she whispered. “Don't
be afraid of him, though.”

“Oh, I'm not. Show him in.”

“All right. Say, Mr. Ellery, it's none of my business, but I wouldn't
say anything about your seein' Grace home. That's none of HIS business,
either, or anybody else's.”

The head of the parish committee stalked into the study and the
door closed behind him. A rumble of voices in animated conversation
succeeded.

Mrs. Coffin went out into the kitchen and resumed her business of making
a dried-apple pie. There was a hot fire in the stove and she opened the
back door to let in the fresh air. She worked briskly, rolling out the
dough, filling the deep dish, and pinking the edges of the upper crust
with a fork. She was thinking as she worked, but not of the minister or
his visitor.

She put the pie in the oven and set the damper. And, as she knelt by the
stove, something struck her lightly on the back of the neck. She looked
up and about her, but there was no one in sight. Then she picked up the
object which had struck her. It was a cranberry, withered and softened
by the winter frosts.

She looked at the cranberry, then at the open door, and her eyes
twinkled. Running quickly to the threshold she peered out. The back yard
was, apparently, empty, save for a few hens belonging to near neighbors,
and these had stopped scratching for a living and were huddled near the
fence.

“Hum!” she mused. “You rascal! Eddie Snow, if it's you, I'll be after
you in a minute. Just because you're big enough to quit school and drive
store wagon is no reason why I can't--Hey? Oh!”

She was looking down below the door, which opened outward and was swung
partly back on its hinges. From under the door projected a boot, a man's
boot and one of ample size.

Keziah's cheeks, already red from the heat of the stove, reddened still
more. Her lips twitched and her eyes sparkled.

“Hum!” she said again. “They say you can tell the Old Scratch by his
footprints, even if you can't smell the sulphur. Anyhow, you can tell
a Hammond by the size of his boots. Come out from behind that door this
minute. Ain't you ashamed of yourself?”

The owner of the boot stepped forth from behind the door and seized her
by both hands.

“Halloo, Keziah!” he cried joyfully. “My, but it's good to see you.”

“Halloo, Nat!” said Keziah heartily. “It's kind of good to see you,
too.”

The rest of him was in keeping with his boots. He was big and
broad-shouldered and bearded. His face, above the beard, was tanned to a
deep reddish brown, and the corners of his eyes were marked with dozens
of tiny wrinkles. He was dressed in blue cloth and wore a wide-brimmed,
soft felt hat. He entered the kitchen and tossed the hat into a corner.

“Well!” he exclaimed. “Why don't you act surprised to see a feller? Here
I've been cruisin' from the Horn to Barnegat and back again, and you
act as if I'd just dropped in to fetch the cup of molasses I borrowed
yesterday. What do you mean by it?”

“Oh, I heard you'd made port.”

“Did, hey? That's Trumet, sure pop. You ain't the only one. I sneaked
off acrost lots so's to dodge the gang of neighbors that I knew would
be sailin' into our yard, the whole fleet loaded to the gunwale with
questions. Wanted to see you first, Keziah.”

“Yes. So, instead of callin' like a Christian, you crept up the back way
and threw cranberries at me. Ain't you ashamed of yourself?”

“Not a mite.” He took a handful of the frostbitten berries from his
coat pocket and inspected them lovingly. “Ain't they fine?” he asked,
crunching two or three between his teeth. “I picked 'em up as I came
along. I tell you, that's the home taste, all right.”

“Don't eat those frozen things. They'll give you your never-get-over.”

“What? Cape Cod cranberries! Never in the world. I'd rather eat sand
down here than the finest mug my steward can cook. Tell you what I'll
do, though; I'll swear off on the cranberries if you'll give me a
four-inch slice of that pie I saw you put in the oven. Dried-apple, I'll
bet my sou'wester. Think you might ask a feller to sit down. Ain't you
glad to see me?”

Mrs. Coffin pulled forward one of the kitchen chairs. He seated himself
on it and it groaned under his weight.

“Whew!” he whistled. “Never made to stand rough weather, was it? Well,
AIN'T you glad?”

Keziah looked at him gravely.

“You know I'm glad, Nat,” she said.

“So? I hoped you would be, but I did want to hear you say it. Now you
come to anchor yourself and let's have a talk. I've been countin' on it
ever since we set tops'ls off Surinam.”

The housekeeper took the other chair.

“How are you--” she began. He stopped her.

“S-shh!” he interrupted. “Don't say anything for a minute. Let me look
at you. Just as clean and wholesome and good-lookin' as ever. They don't
make girls like that anywhere else but down on this old sand bar. Not a
day older, by the jumpin'--”

She held up her hand.

“Hush, Nat,” she protested; “don't talk foolish. Girl? Not a day older?
Why, if feelin's count for anything, I'm as old as Methusaleh. Haven't I
had enough to make me old?”

He was grave immediately.

“I beg your pardon, Keziah,” he said. “I'm a dough head, that's a fact.
I hadn't forgot about Sol, but I was so glad to be home again and to see
dad and Grace and the old town and you that everything else flew out of
my mind. Poor Sol! I liked him.”

“He liked you, too. No wonder, considerin' what you did to--”

“Belay! Never mind that. Poor chap! Well, he's rid of his sufferin's at
last. Tell me about it, if you can without bringin' all the trouble back
too plain.”

So she told him of her brother's sickness and death, of having to give
up the old home, and, finally, of her acceptance of the housekeeper's
position. He listened, at first with sympathy and then with suppressed
indignation.

“By the jumpin' Moses!” he exclaimed. “And Elkanah was goin' to turn you
out of house and home. The mean, pompous old--”

“Hush! hush! he's in there with Mr. Ellery.”

“Who? Elkanah?”

“Yes; they're in the study.”

“By the jumpin'--Let me talk to him for a few minutes. I'LL tell him
what's good for his health. You just listen.”

He rose from the chair, but she made him sit down again.

“No, no,” she protested. “He wasn't to blame. He had to have his rent
and I didn't feel that I could afford to keep up a whole house, just for
myself. And, besides, I ought to be thankful to him, I suppose. He got
me this place.”

“He did?”

“Yes, he did. I rather guess Zeb Mayo or somebody may have suggested it
to him first, but--”

“Humph! I rather guess so, too.”

“Well, you can't always tell. Sometimes when you really get inside of a
person you find a generous streak that--”

“Not in a Daniels. Anybody that got inside of Elkanah would find nothin'
but Elkanah there, and 'twould be crowded at that. So he's talkin' to
the new parson, hey? Bossin' him, too, I'll bet.”

“I ain't so sure. Mr. Ellery's young, but he's got a mind of his own.”

Captain Hammond chuckled and slapped his knee.

“Ho, ho!” he laughed. “I've been hearin' somethin' about that mind. Went
to the chapel last night, I understand, and he and dad had a set-to. Oh,
I heard about it! Wish I might have been there.”

“How does your father act about it?”

“'Bout the way a red-hot stove acts when you spill water on it; every
time he thinks of the minister he sizzles. Ho, ho! I do wish I could
have been there.”

“What does Grace say?”

“Oh, she doesn't say much. I wouldn't wonder if she felt the way I do,
though we both keep quiet. I'll tell you, between ourselves and the
ship's pump, that I sort of glory in the young chap's spunk.”

“Good! So do I. I like him.”

“See here, Keziah! I'm gettin' frightened. You ain't settin' your cap to
be a parson's wife, are you? Because--”

“Don't be silly. I might adopt him, but that's all, I guess.”

Her friend leaned forward.

“Keziah,” he said earnestly, “there's no sense in your slavin' yourself
to death here. I can think of a good deal pleasanter berth than that.
Pleasanter for me, anyhow, and I'd do my best to make it pleasant for
you. You've only got to say the word and--No? Well, then all I can do is
hope through another voyage.”

“Please don't, Nat. You know.”

“No, I don't know.”

“Well, perhaps you don't. But I know. I like you, Nat. I count on you as
the straightest, truest friend I've got; and I want to keep on countin'
on you just that way. Mayn't I?”

“'Course you can, Keziah. But--”

“Then don't say another word, please.”

He sighed and looked out at the open door. The kitchen clock ticked loud
in the silence.

“All right,” he said at last. “All right, but I'm goin' to keep on
hopin'.”

“You mustn't, Nat.”

“Keziah, when you set your foot down you're pretty stubborn; but I've
got somethin' of a foot myself. You remember you said so a few minutes
ago. Hi, hum! Well, speakin' of dad reminds me that I'm kind of worried
about him.”

“You are? Why? Isn't he well?”

“Pretty well, but he ain't strong, and he gets too excited over things
like last night's foolishness. Grace tells me that the doctor says he
must be careful or he'll drop off sudden some of these days. He had a
shock five or six years ago, a little one, and I've been anxious about
him ever since. I've got to go to New York off and on for the next
month; after that I hope to be home for a spell and I can keep an eye on
him. Keziah, if you'll listen I'll whisper somethin' to you--religion's
a good thing and so's a mustard plaster, but both of 'em can be put on
too strong. Dad is just a little mite crazy on Come-Outers, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, no, I guess not! You mustn't worry. How did Grace look to you?”

“Like the harbor light on a stormy night. She's a brick, that girl, and
gets prettier every minute. Wonder to me some of the young chaps down
here don't carry her off by main strength. She'll make somebody a good
wife.”

“Um-hm. Have--have you ever thought of her that way yourself?”

“Keziah!”

“Well, don't get mad. I think a lot of Grace, and I don't know anyone
I'd rather see you marry.”

“I do. Keziah, that's enough of that. Are you and dad in partnership to
get me spliced and out of the way? He was at me this mornin' along the
same line. Don't say anything like that again, even in fun. YOU know
why.”

“All right, all right. Now tell me about yourself. Have you had a good
voyage? How do you like your owners? How did Zach Foster ever get the
packet in through yesterday's fog?”

“Voyage was all right. Some rugged weather on the trip out, but homeward
bound we slid along like a slush bucket on a greased plank. Owners
are all right. Good people as ever I sailed for. As for Zach and the
packet--Ho, ho!”

He laughed, rocking back and forth on the chair, which creaked in
sympathy.

“What's the joke?” demanded the housekeeper. “Don't do that! That chair
wasn't made for elephants to use.”

“Hey? 'Tis pretty weak in the knees, ain't it? Dad would say 'twas a
piece with the creed of those that owned it. I--What's that? Somebody's
comin'. I'm goin' to clear out. I don't want to be put through my
catechism yet a while.”

“No, you mustn't go. I want you to meet Mr. Ellery. You sit out on
the wash bench by the back door till I get rid of whoever 'tis that's
comin'. Scoot!”

Nat “scooted,” stopping to snatch up his hat as he ran. Keziah went into
the dining room and admitted Captain Zebedee Mayo, who was panting from
the exertion of his walk.

“Whew!” puffed Captain Zeb, mopping his forehead. “How be you, Keziah?
What? You ain't all alone! Thought you'd have a cabin full of gab
machines by this time. Have they been and gone?”

“No, they haven't been. I--My land, my pie!”

She rushed into the kitchen and snatched the pastry from the oven. Her
new caller followed her.

“So they ain't been, hey?” he said. “That's queer.”

“Elkanah's here. He's in there with the minister now.”

“He is? Givin' the young feller Hail Columby, I cal'late. Well, now,
he shan't. He, he! When they told me how the minister passed old
hop-and-go-fetch-it what was due him at the chapel last night I riz up
and hoorayed till my wife shut the windows. She said the neighbors all
thought I was loony, anyhow, and I needn't prove it to 'em. He, he! But
Elkanah ain't got any funny bone. He's as solemn as a stuffed owl, and
he'll--Well, I'm goin' to put MY oar in. I'm parish committee, too, I
cal'late, and I've got somethin' to say, even if I wa'n't christened
Daniels. Here goes!”

He headed for the study, but before he crossed the threshold of the
kitchen Ellery and his visitor came out into the dining room. Captain
Elkanah's face was flushed, and he fidgeted. The minister looked
determined but calm.

“Ahoy there, Elkanah!” hailed Zebedee cheerfully. “'Mornin', Mr. Ellery.
Been havin' officers' counsel, have you?”

“Good morning, Captain Mayo,” said the minister.

“'Mornin', Zebedee,” grunted Elkanah. “I have--hum--ha!--been
discussing the regrettable affair of last night with Mr. Ellery. I have
tried--hum--ha! to show him that respectable people of our society don't
associate with Come-Outers, and that for a Regular minister to go to
their meetings is something neither the congregation nor the parish
committee approves of. No--er--hum--ha! no!”

“And I explained to Captain Daniels,” observed the minister, “that I
went there for what seemed to me good reasons, and, as they did seem to
me good at the time, I'm not ashamed of having gone. It was an honest
mistake on my part and I may make more.”

“But the society--” began Elkanah. Captain Zeb interrupted him.

“Don't worry about the society, Mr. Ellery,” he said with emphasis. “Nor
about the parish committee, either. Great fishhooks! the most of us are
tickled to death over what you said to Eben Hammond. We think it's a
mighty good joke. YOU didn't know, of course, and what you did was done
innocent. He! he! he! Did you lay him out, hey?”

“Zebedee,” began Captain Daniels, “I must say I can't see anything to
laugh at.”

“You never could, Elkanah. I remember that time when you and me and some
of the fellers home from sea went out sailin' and the boom knocked you
overboard with your Sunday clothes on. Lordy, how the rest of us did
holler! but you never cracked a smile. If you'd seen yourself when we
hauled you in! whiskers runnin' salt water; beaver hat lookin' like a
drownded kitten--”

“There! There! Never mind that. I think you'll find a good many of the
society feel as I do, shocked and--hum--ha!--sorry. I'm surprised they
haven't been here to say so.”

“I expected them,” remarked the minister.

“So did I,” chimed in Captain Zeb. “But I cal'late to know why they
ain't been. They're all too busy crowin' over the way Nat Hammond
fetched the packet home last night. WHAT? You ain't heard? Great
fishhooks! it's the best thing ever--”

“I've heard about it,” snapped Elkanah impatiently. “Mr. Ellery, I'm
glad you realize that your action was a mistake and I will take pains to
have that immejitly made plain to--”

“YOU ain't heard, Keziah, have you?” broke in Zebedee. “Nor you, Mr.
Ellery? Well, I must tell you. Here's where I gain a lap on Didama
Rogers. Seems the Deborah S.--that's the packet's name, Mr. Ellery--she
hauled out of Boston night afore last on the ebb, with a fair wind and
sky clear as a bell. But they hadn't much more'n got outside of Minot's
'fore the fog shut down, thicker'n gruel for a sick rich man. The wind
held till 'long toward mornin'; then she flattened to a dead calm. 'Bije
Perry, the mate, he spun the yarn to me, and he said 'twas thick and
flat as ever he see and kept gettin' no better fast.

“They drifted along till noon time and then they was somewheres out in
the bay, but that's about all you could say. Zach, he was stewin' and
sputterin' like a pair of fried eels, and Lafayette Gage and Emulous
Peters--they're Denboro folks, Mr. Ellery, and about sixteen p'ints
t'other side of no account--they was the only passengers aboard except
Nat Hammond, and they put in their time playin' high low jack in the
cabin. The lookout was for'ard tootin' a tin horn and his bellerin'
was the most excitin' thing goin' on. After dinner--corned beef and
cabbage--trust Zach for that, though it's next door to cannibalism to
put cabbage in HIS mouth--after dinner all hands was on deck when Nat
says: 'Hush!' he says. 'Don't I hear somethin'?'

“They listened, and then they all heard it--all 'cept Zach, who's deef
in his larboard ear.

“'Stand by!' roars Nat. 'It's a squall, dead astern and comin' abilin'!
I'll take her, 'Bije. You look out for them tops'ls.'

“So Nat grabs the wheel and 'Bije tears for'ard and sends the two
fo'mast hands aloft on the jump. Zach was skipper, but all he done was
race around and holler and trip over his own feet. Oh, he's a prize
sailor, he is! Don't talk to me about them Fosters! I--”

“Nobody is talkin' about 'em but you, Zeb,” observed Keziah drily. “Go
on. How about the squall?”

“It hit 'em 'fore they got even one tops'l clewed down. That one, the
foretops'l 'twas, split to rags. The main tops'l was set, and when the
squall struck, the rotten old topmast went by the board 'Kerrash-o!'
'Course splinters flew like all possessed, and one of 'em, about a foot
long, sailed past Nat's head, where he stood heavin' his whole weight on
the wheel, and lit right on the binnacle, smashin' it to matches.

“They say Nat never paid the least attention, no more'n if the chunk of
wood had been a June bug buzzin' past. He just held that wheel hard down
and that saved the packet. She come around and put her nose dead in
the wind just in time. As 'twas, 'Bije says there was a second when the
water by her lee rail looked right underneath him as he hung onto the
deck with finger nails and teeth.

“Well, there they was, afloat, but with their upper riggin' gone and
the compass smashed flat. A howlin' no'thwester blowin' and fog thick as
ever. Zach was a whimperin', fidgetin' old woman, Lafayette and Emulous
was prayin' in the scuppers--and that ain't an exercise they're used to,
neither--and even 'Bije was mighty shook up and worried--he says he was
himself. But Nat Hammond was as cool and refreshin' as the bottom of my
well up home.

“'Better clear away that mess aloft, hadn't you?' he says to the
skipper.

“Zach said he guessed so; he wa'n't sure of nothin'. However, they
cleared it away, and incidentally 'Bije yanked the prayer meetin' out
of the scuppers and set 'em to work. Then Nat suggests gettin' the spare
compass and, lo and behold you! there wa'n't any. Compasses cost money
and money's made to keep, so Zach thinks.

“So there they was. Wind was fair, or ought to be, but 'twas blowin'
hard and so thick you couldn't hardly see the jib boom. Zach he wanted
to anchor, then he didn't, then he did, and so on. Nobody paid much
attention to him.

“'What'll we do, Nat?' says 'Bije. He knew who was the real seaman
aboard.

“'Keep her as she is, dead afore it, if you ask me, says Nat. 'Guess
we'll hit the broadside of the cape somewheres if this gale holds.'

“So they kept her as she was. And it got to be night and they knew
they'd ought to be 'most onto the edge of the flats off here, if their
reck'nin' was nigh right. They hove the lead and got five fathom. No
flats about that.

“Zach was for anchorin' again. 'What do you think, Nat?' asks 'Bije.

“'Anchor, of course, if you want to,' Nat says. 'You're runnin' this
craft. I'm only passenger.'

“'But what do you THINK?' whines Zach. 'Can't you tell us what you do
think?'

“'Well, if 'twas me, I wouldn't anchor till I had to. Prob'ly 'twill
fair off to-morrow, but if it shouldn't, we might have to lay out here
all day. Anyhow, we'd have to wait for a full tide.'

“'I'm afraid we're off the course,' says 'Bije, else we'd been acrost
the bar by this time.'

“'Well,' Nat tells him, 'if we are off the course and too far inshore,
we would have made the bar--the Bayport bar--if not the Trumet one. And
if we're off the course and too far out, we'd ought to have deeper water
than five fathom, hadn't we? 'Course I'm not sure, but--What's that,
lands-man?'

“'Three and a half, sir,' says the feller with the lead. That showed
they was edgin' in somewheres. Nat he sniffed, for all the world like a
dog catchin' a scent, so 'Bije declares.

“'I can smell home,' he says.

“Three fathom the lead give 'em, then two and a half, then a scant two.
They was drawin' six feet. Zach couldn't stand it.

“'I'm goin' to anchor,' he squeals, frantic. 'I believe we're plumb over
to Wellmouth and drivin' right onto Horsefoot Shoal.'

“'It's either that or the bar,' chimes in 'Bije. 'And whichever 'tis, we
can't anchor in the middle of it.'

“'But what'll we do?' shouts Zach. 'Can't nobody say somethin' to DO?'

“'Tell you I smell home,' says Nat, calm and chipper, 'and I'd know that
smell if I met it in Jericho. Ha! there she deepens again. That was the
bar and we're over it.'

“The wind had gone down to a stiff sailin' breeze, and the old Debby S.
slapped along afore it. Sometimes there was twelve foot under her keel
and sometimes eight or nine. Once 'twas only seven and a half. Zach and
'Bije both looked at each other, but Nat only smiled.

“'Oh, you can laugh!' hollers Zach. ''Tain't your vessel you're runnin'
into danger. YOU aint paid out your good money--'

“Nat never answered; but he stopped smilin'.

“And all to once the water deepened. Hammond swung her up into the wind.

“'NOW you can anchor,' says he.

“'And 'bout time, too, I guess,' says 'Bije. 'I cal'late the skipper's
right. This IS Horsefoot and we're right between the shoals. Yes, sir,
and I hear breakers. Lively there!'

“They hove over the mudhook and dropped the sails. Nat shook his head.

“'Breakers or not,' says he, 'I tell you I've smelt home for the last
half hour. Now, by the jumpin' Moses, I can TASTE it!'

“And inside of a couple of shakes come the rain. It poured for a while
and then the fog cleared. Right acrost their bows was Trumet, with the
town clock strikin' ten. Over the flat place between the hills they
could see the light on the ocean side. And they was anchored right
in the deep hole inside the breakwater, as sure as I'm knee high to a
marlin spike!

“'Bije just stared at Hammond with his mouth open.

“'Nat,' says he, 'you're a seaman, if I do say it. I thought I was a
pretty good bay pilot, but I can't steer a vessel without a compass
through a night as black as Pharaoh's Egypt, and in a thick fog besides,
and land her square on top of her moorin's. If my hat wa'n't sloshin'
around thirty mile astern, I snum if I wouldn't take it off to you this
minute!'

“'Nat,' stammers Zach, 'I must say I--'

“Nat snapped him shut like a tobacco box. 'You needn't,' says he. 'But
I'll say this to you, Zach Foster. When I undertake to handle a vessel
I handle her best I know how, and the fact that I don't own her makes no
difference to me. You just put that down somewheres so you won't forget
it.'

“And this mornin',” crowed Captain Zebedee, concluding his long yarn,
“after that, mind you, that lubber Zach Foster is around town tellin'
folks that his schooner had been over the course so often she COULDN'T
get lost. She found her way home herself. WHAT do you think of that?”

The two members of the parish committee left the parsonage soon after
Captain Mayo had finished his story. Elkanah had listened with growing
irritation and impatience. Zebedee lingered a moment behind his
companions.

“Don't you fret yourself about what happened last night, Mr. Ellery,”
 he whispered. “It'll be all right. 'Course nobody'd want you to keep up
chummin' in with Come-Outers, but what you said to old Eben'll square
you this time. So long.”

The minister shut the door behind his departing guests. Then he went out
into the kitchen, whither the housekeeper had preceded him. He found her
standing on the back step, looking across the fields. The wash bench was
untenanted.

“Hum!” mused Ellery thoughtfully, “that was a good story of Captain
Mayo's. This man Hammond must be a fine chap. I should like to meet
him.”

Keziah still looked away over the fields. She did not wish her employer
to see her face--just then.

“I thought you would meet him,” she said. “He was here a little while
ago and I asked him to wait. I guess Zeb's yarn was too much for him; he
doesn't like to be praised.”

“So? Was he here? At the Regular parsonage? I'm surprised.”

“He and I have known each other for a long while.”

“Well, I'm sorry he's gone. I think I should like him.”

Keziah turned from the door.

“I know you would,” she said.


CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH CAPTAIN NAT PICKS UP A DERELICT


It is probable that John Ellery never fully realized the debt of
gratitude he owed to the fog and the squall and to Captain Nat Hammond.
Trumet, always hungry for a sensation, would have thoroughly enjoyed
arguing and quarreling over the minister's visit to Come-Outer meeting,
and, during the fracas, Keziah's parson might have been more or less
battered. But Captain Nat's brilliant piloting of the old packet was
a bit of seamanship which every man and woman on that foam-bordered
stretch of sand could understand and appreciate, and the minister's
indiscretion was all but forgotten in consequence. The “Daily
Advertisers” gloated over it, of course, and Captain Elkanah brought it
up at the meeting of the parish committee, but there Captain Zeb Mayo
championed the young man's course and proclaimed that, fur's he was
concerned, he was for Mr. Ellery more'n ever. “A young greenhorn
with the spunk to cruise single-handed right into the middle of the
Come-Outer school and give an old bull whale like Eben the gaff is the
man for my money,” declared Zebedee. Most of his fellow-committee agreed
with him. “Not guilty, but don't do it again,” was the general verdict.

As for the Come-Outers, they professed to believe that their leader had
much the best of the encounter, so they were satisfied. There was a
note of triumph and exultation in the “testimony” given on the following
Thursday night, and Captain Eben divided his own discourse between
thankfulness for his son's safe return and glorification at the
discomfiture of the false prophets. Practically, then, the result of
Ellery's peace overture was an increased bitterness in the feeling
between the two societies and a polishing of weapons on both sides.

Keziah watched anxiously for a hint concerning her parson's walk in the
rain with Grace, but she heard nothing, so congratulated herself that
the secret had been kept. Ellery did not again mention it to her, nor
she to him. A fortnight later he preached his great sermon on “The
Voyage of Life,” and its reference to gales and calms and lee shores and
breakers made a hit. His popularity took a big jump.

He met Nat Hammond during that fortnight. The first meeting was
accompanied by unusual circumstances, which might have been serious, but
were actually only funny.

The tide at Trumet, on the bay side, goes out for a long way, leaving
uncovered a mile and a half of flats, bare and sandy, or carpeted with
seaweed. Between these flats are the channels, varying at low water from
two to four feet in depth, but deepening rapidly as the tide flows.

The flats fascinated the young minister, as they have many another
visitor to the Cape, before or since. On cloudy days they lowered with
a dull, leaden luster and the weed-grown portions were like the dark
squares on a checkerboard, while the deep water beyond the outer bar was
steely gray and angry. When the sun shone and the wind blew clear from
the northwest the whole expanse flashed into fire and color, sapphire
blue, emerald green, topaz yellow, dotted with white shells and ablaze
with diamond sparkles where the reflected light leaped from the flint
crystals of the wet, coarse sand.

The best time to visit the flats--tide serving, of course--is the early
morning at sunrise. Then there is an inspiration in the wide expanse, a
snap and tang and joy in the air. Ellery had made up his mind to take a
before-breakfast tramp to the outer bar and so arose at five, tucked a
borrowed pair of fisherman's boots beneath his arm, and, without saying
anything to his housekeeper, walked down the lawn behind the parsonage,
climbed the rail fence, and “cut across lots” to the pine grove on the
bluff. There he removed his shoes, put on the boots, wallowed through
the mealy yellow sand forming the slope of the bluff, and came out on
the white beach and the inner edge of the flats. Then he plashed on,
bound out to where the fish weirs stood, like webby fences, in the
distance.

It was a wonderful walk on a wonderful day. The minister enjoyed every
minute of it. Out here he could forget the petty trials of life, the
Didamas and Elkanahs. The wind blew his hat off and dropped it in a
shallow channel, but he splashed to the rescue and laughed aloud as he
fished it out. It was not much wetter than it had been that night of
the rain, when he tried to lend his umbrella and didn't succeed. This
reflection caused him to halt in his walk and look backward toward the
shore. The brown roof of the old tavern was blushing red in the first
rays of the sun.

A cart, drawn by a plodding horse and with a single individual on its
high seat, was moving out from behind the breakwater. Some fisherman
driving out his weir, probably.

The sand of the outer bar was dimpled and mottled like watered silk by
the action of the waves. It sloped gradually down to meet the miniature
breakers that rolled over and slid in ripples along its edge. Ellery
wandered up and down, picking up shells and sea clams, and peering
through the nets of the nearest weir at the “horsefoot crabs” and squid
and flounders imprisoned in the pound. There were a few bluefish there,
also, and a small school of mackerel.

The minister had been on the bar a considerable time before he began to
think of returning to the shore. He was hungry, but was enjoying himself
too well to mind. The flats were all his that morning. Only the cart and
its driver were in sight and they were half a mile off. He looked at
his watch, sighed, and reluctantly started to walk toward the town; he
mustn't keep Mrs. Coffin's breakfast waiting TOO long.

The first channel he came to was considerably deeper than when he forded
it on the way out. He noticed this, but only vaguely. The next, however,
was so deep that the water splashed in at the top of one of his boots.
He did notice that, because though he was not wearing his best clothes,
he was not anxious to wet his “other ones.” The extent of his wardrobe
was in keeping with the size of his salary.

And the third channel was so wide and deep that he saw at once it could
not be forded, unless he was willing to plunge above his waist. This
was provoking. Now he realized that he had waited too long. The tide had
been flowing for almost an hour; it had flowed fast and, as he should
have remembered, having been told, the principal channels were eight
feet deep before the highest flats were covered.

He hurried along the edge, looking for a shallower place, but found
none. At last he reached the point of the flat he was on and saw, to
his dismay, that here was the deepest spot yet, a hole, scoured out by a
current like a mill race. Turning, he saw, creeping rapidly and steadily
together over the flat behind him, two lines of foam, one from each
channel. His retreat was cut off.

He was in for a wetting, that was sure. However, there was no help for
it, so he waded in. The water filled his boots there, it gurgled about
his hips, and beyond, as he could see, it seemed to grow deeper and
deeper. The current was surprisingly strong; he found it difficult to
keep his footing in the soft sand. It looked as though he must swim for
it, and to swim in that tide would be no joke.

Then, from behind him, came a hail. He turned and saw moving toward him
through the shallow water now covering the flat beyond the next channel,
the cart he had seen leave the shore by the packet wharf, and, later, on
the outer bar. The horse was jogging along, miniature geysers spouting
beneath its hoofs. The driver waved to him.

“Hold on, mate,” he called. “Belay there. Stay where you are. I'll be
alongside in a shake. Git dap, January!”

Ellery waded back to meet this welcome arrival. The horse plunged into
the next channel, surged through it, and emerged dripping. The driver
pulled the animal into a walk.

“Say,” he cried, “I'm cruisin' your way; better get aboard, hadn't you?
There's kind of a heavy dew this mornin'. Whoa, Bill!”

“Bill” or “January” stopped with apparent willingness. The driver leaned
down and extended a hand. The minister took it and was pulled up to the
seat.

“Whew!” he panted. “I'm much obliged to you. I guess you saved me from a
ducking, if nothing worse.”

“Yes,” was the answer, “I wouldn't wonder if I did. This ain't Saturday
night and 'twould be against Trumet principles to take a bath any other
time. All taut, are you? Good enough! then we'll get under way.” He
flapped the reins and added, “G'long, Julius Caesar!”

The horse, a sturdy, sedate beast to whom all names seemed to be alike,
picked up his feet and pounded them down again. Showers of spray flew
about the heads of the pair on the seat.

“I ain't so sure about that duckin',” commented the rescuer. “Hum! I
guess likely we'll be out of soundin's if we tackle that sink hole you
was undertakin' to navigate. Let's try it a little further down.”

Ellery looked his companion over.

“Well,” he observed with a smile, “from what I've heard of you, Captain
Hammond, I rather guess you could navigate almost any water in this
locality and in all sorts of weather.”

The driver turned in surprise.

“So?” he exclaimed. “You know me, do you? That's funny. I was tryin' to
locate you, but I ain't been able to. You ain't a Trumetite I'll bet on
that.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Tut! tut! tut! you don't tell me. Say, shipmate, you hurt my pride. I
did think there wa'n't a soul that ever trod sand in this village that I
couldn't name on sight, and give the port they hailed from and the names
of their owners. But you've got me on my beam ends. And yet you knew
ME.”

“Of course I did. Everybody knows the man that brought the packet home.”

Nat Hammond sniffed impatiently.

“Um--hm!” he grunted. “I cal'late everybody does, and knows a lot more
about that foolishness than I do myself. If ever a craft was steered
by guess and by godfrey, 'twas that old hooker of Zach's t'other night.
Well--Humph! here's another piece of pilotin' that bids fair to be a
mighty sight harder. Heave ahead, Hannibal! hope you've got your web
feet with you.”

They had moved along the edge of the flat a short distance and now
turned into the channel. The horse was wading above its knees; soon the
water reached its belly and began to flow into the body of the cart.

“Pick up your feet, shipmate,” commanded Nat. “You may get rheumatiz if
you don't. This'll be a treat for those sea clams back in that bucket
amidships. They'll think I've repented and have decided to turn 'em
loose again. They don't know how long I've been countin' on a sea-clam
pie. I'll fetch those clams ashore if I have to lug 'em with my teeth.
Steady, all hands! we're off the ways.”

The cart was afloat. The horse, finding wading more difficult than
swimming, began to swim.

“Now I'm skipper again, sure enough,” remarked Hammond. “Ain't gettin'
seasick, are you?”

The minister laughed.

“No,” he said.

“Good! she keeps on a fairly even keel, considerin' her build. THERE
she strikes! That'll do, January; you needn't try for a record voyage.
Walkin's more in your line than playin' steamboat. We're over the worst
of it now. Say! you and I didn't head for port any too soon, did we?”

“No, I should say not. I ought to have known better than to wait out
there so long. I've been warned about this tide. I--”

“S-sh-sh! YOU ought to have known better! What do you think of me? Born
and brought up within sight and smell of this salt puddle and let myself
in for a scrape like this! But it was so mighty fine off there on the
bar I couldn't bear to leave it. I always said that goin' to sea on
land would be the ideal way, and now I've tried it. But you took bigger
chances than I did. Are you a good swimmer?”

“Not too good. I hardly know what might have happened if you hadn't--”

“S-sh-sh! that's all right. Always glad to pick up a derelict, may be a
chance for salvage, you know. Here's the last channel and it's an easy
one. There! now it's plain sailin' for dry ground.”

The old horse, breathing heavily from his exertions, trotted over the
stretch of yet uncovered flats and soon mounted the slope of the beach.
The minister prepared to alight.

“Captain Hammond,” he said, “you haven't asked me my name.”

“No, I seldom do more'n once. There have been times when I'D just as
soon cruise without too big letters alongside my figurehead.”

“Well, my name is Ellery.”

“Hey? WHAT? Oh, ho! ho! ho!”

He rocked back and forth on the seat. The minister's feelings were a bit
hurt, though he tried not to show it.

“You mustn't mind my laughin',” explained Nat, still chuckling. “It
ain't at you. It's just because I was wonderin' what you'd look like if
I should meet you and now--Ho! ho! You see, Mr. Ellery, I've heard of
you, same as you said you'd heard of me.”

Ellery smiled, but not too broadly.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I imagined you had.”

“Yes, seems to me dad mentioned your name once or twice. As much as
that, anyhow. Wonder what he'd say if he knew his son had been takin'
you for a mornin' ride?”

“Probably that it would have been much better to have left me where you
found me.”

The captain's jolly face grew serious.

“No, no!” he protested. “Not so bad as that. Dad wouldn't drown anybody,
not even a Regular minister. He's a pretty square-built old craft, even
though his spiritual chart may be laid out different from yours--and
mine.”

“From yours? Why, I supposed--”

“Yes, I know. Well, WHEN I go to meetin', I generally go to the chapel
to please father. But when it comes right down to a confession of faith,
I'm pretty broad in the beam. Maybe I'd be too broad even for you, Mr.
Ellery.”

The minister, who had jumped to the ground, looked up.

“Captain Hammond,” he said, “I'm very glad indeed that I met you. Not
alone because you helped me out of a bad scrape; I realize how bad it
might have been and that--”

“Shsh! shh! Nothin' at all. Don't be foolish.”

“But I'm glad, too, because I've heard so many good things about you
that I was sure you must be worth knowing. I hope you won't believe I
went to your father's meeting with any--”

“No, no! Jumpin' Moses, man! I don't find fault with you for that. I
understand, I guess.”

“Well, if you don't mind the fact that I am what I am, I'd like to shake
hands with you.”

Nat reached down a big brown hand.

“Same here,” he said. “Always glad to shake with a chap as well
recommended as you are. Yes, indeed, I mean it. You see, you've got a
friend that's a friend of mine, and when she guarantees a man to be A.
B., I'll ship him without any more questions.”

“Well, then, good-by. I hope we shall meet again and often. And I
certainly thank you for--”

“That's all right. Maybe you'll fish ME out of the drink some day; you
never can tell. So long! Git dap, Gen'ral Scott!”

He drove off up the beach, but before he turned the corner of the
nearest dune he called back over his shoulder:

“Say, Mr. Ellery, if you think of it you might give my regards
to--to--er--the lady that's keepin' house for you.”

Breakfast had waited nearly an hour when the minister reached home.
Keziah, also, was waiting and evidently much relieved at his safe
arrival.

“Sakes alive!” she exclaimed, as she met him at the back door. “Where in
the world have you been, Mr. Ellery? Soakin' wet again, too!”

Ellery replied that he had been for a walk out to the bar. He sat down
on the step to remove the borrowed boots. A small rivulet of salt water
poured from each as he pulled them off.

“For a walk! A swim, you mean. How could you get in up to your waist if
you just walked? Did you fall down?”

“No, not exactly. But I waited too long and the tide headed me off.”

“Mercy on us! you mustn't take chances on that tide. If you'd told me
you was goin', I'd have warned you to hurry back.”

“Oh, I've been warned often enough. It was my own fault, as usual. I'm
not sure that I don't need a guardian.”

“Humph! well, I ain't sure either. Was the channels very deep?”

“Deep enough. The fact is, that I might have got into serious trouble if
I hadn't been picked up.”

He told briefly the story of his morning's adventure. The housekeeper
listened with growing excitement.

“Heavens to Betsy!” she interrupted. “Was the channel you planned to
swim the one at the end of the flat by the longest weir leader?”

“Yes.”

“My soul! there's been two men drowned in that very place at half tide.
And they were good swimmers. After this I shan't dare let you out of my
sight.”

“So? Was it as risky as that? Why, Captain Hammond didn't tell me so. I
must owe him more even than I thought.”

“Yes, I guess you do. He wouldn't tell you, though; that ain't his way.
Deary me! for what we've received let us be thankful. And that reminds
me that biscuits ought to be et when they're first made, not after
they've been dried up on the back of the stove forever and ever amen.
Go on and change those wet things of yours and then we'll eat. Tryin' to
swim the main channel on the flood! My soul and body!”

“Captain Nat sent his regards to you, Mrs. Coffin,” said the minister,
moving toward the stairs.

“Did, hey?” was the housekeeper's reply. “Want to know!”


CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH THE PARSON AND MR. PEPPER DECLARE THEIR INDEPENDENCE


That afternoon, when dinner was over, the Reverend John decided to make
a few duty calls. The first of these he determined should be on the
Peppers. Lavinia and her brother had called at the Parsonage several
times, but as yet he had not paid them a visit. It was not a ceremony
to which he looked forward with delight, but it must be performed.
Miss Pepper had hinted several times, at sewing circle and after prayer
meeting, of “partiality” and “only stoppin' in where they had fancy
curtains up to the windows.” So, as it could not be put off longer,
without causing trouble, he determined to go through with it.

The Pepper house was situated just off the main road on the lane leading
over the dunes to the ocean and the light. It was a small building, its
white paint dingy and storm beaten, and its little fenced-in front
yard dotted thickly with clumps of silver-leaf saplings. A sign, nailed
crookedly on a post, informed those seeking such information that within
was to be found “Abishai G. W. Pepper, Tax Collector, Assessor, Boots
and Shoes Repaired.” And beneath this was fastened a shingle with the
chalked notice, “Salt Hay for sale.”

The boot and shoe portion of the first sign was a relic of other days.
Kyan had been a cobbler once, but it is discouraging to wait three
or four weeks while the pair of boots one has left to be resoled are
forgotten in a corner. Captain Zeb Mayo's pointed comment, “I want my
shoe leather to wear while I'm alive, not to be laid out in after I die
of old age,” expressed the general feeling of the village and explained
why custom had left Mr. Pepper and flown to the more enterprising
shoemaker at “The Corners.” The tax collectorship might have followed
it, but here Lavinia kept her brother up to the mark. She went with
him on his rounds and it gave her opportunity to visit, and afterwards
comment upon, every family in town.

The minister walked up the dusty lane, lifted the Pepper gate and swung
it back on its one hinge, shooed away the three or four languid and
discouraged-looking fowls that were taking a sun bath on the clam-shell
walk, and knocked at the front door. No one coming in answer to the
knock, he tried again. Then he discovered a rusty bell pull and gave it
a sharp tug. The knob came off in his hand and he hurriedly thrust it
back again into its place. Evidently, that bell was solely for ornament.

He came to the conclusion that no one was at home and felt a guilty
sense of relief in consequence. But his conscience would not let him
depart without another try, so he clenched his fist and gave the cracked
door panel a series of tremendous thumps. A thin black cat, which had
evidently been asleep beneath the step, burst from its concealment and
fled in frantic terror. Then from somewhere in the rear of the house
came the sound of a human voice.

“Hi!” it called faintly. “Whoever you be, don't bust that door down.
Come round here.”

Ellery walked around the corner of the building. The voice came again.

“Say!” it wailed, “why don't you answer? Be you comin'? If you're a
peddler, you needn't.”

“I'm not a peddler,” was the minister's amused reply.

“Oh, ain't ye? All right. Come along, then.”

Ellery “came along” as far as the angle where the ell joined the main
body of the house. So far as he could see every door and window was
closed and there were no signs of life. However, he stepped to the door,
a green-painted affair of boards, and ventured another knock.

“Don't start that poundin' again!” protested the voice. “Come round to
t'other side where I be.”

So around went the Reverend John, smiling broadly. But even on “t'other
side” there was no one to be seen. And no door, for that matter.

“Why!” exclaimed the voice, “if 'tain't Mr. Ellery! How d'ye do? Glad to
see you, Mr. Ellery. Fine day, ain't it? Here I be at this window.”

Sure enough; one of the windows on this side of the house was raised
about six inches at the bottom, the shade was up, and peering beneath
the sash the minister discerned the expressive features of Abishai
Pepper--or as much of those features as the size of the opening
permitted to be seen.

“Oh!” exclaimed the visitor, “is that you, Mr. Pepper? Well, I'm glad to
see you, at last. You are rather hard to see, even now.”

Kyan was plainly embarrassed. He stammered as he answered.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I--I shouldn't wonder if I be. How be you? Pretty
smart?”

“Yes, thank you. I'm well.”

“Er--er--come to call, did you?”

“Why, yes, that was my intention.”

“Hum! Er--er--Laviny, she's gone over to Thankful Payne's. She heard
that Thankful's cousin up to Middleboro had died--passed away, I
mean--and she thought she'd run over and find out if Thankful was willed
anything. She said she'd be back pretty soon.”

“Very well. Then, as she won't be gone long, perhaps I'll come in and
wait.”

He was moving away toward the corner when a shout from beneath the
window sash brought him to a halt.

“Hi!” called Abishai. “Hi, Mr. Ellery! don't go to that door. 'Tain't no
use; it's locked.”

“Locked? Well, you can unlock it, can't you?”

“No, not very well. That is, I--Mr. Ellery, come back here, won't ye? I
don't want anybody to hear.”

The house of the nearest neighbor being several hundred yards away,
the likelihood of being overheard was improbable; but the minister came
back, nevertheless.

“You see, Mr. Ellery,” stammered Kyan, “I--I'd like to have you come in
fust rate, but--er--Laviny she's got the key.”

Ellery was surprised.

“She has!” he exclaimed.

“Um--hm, she's got it. She took it with her.”

“But there are other doors. She didn't take them all, did she?”

“No--o, but--Well, the fact is, Mr. Ellery, I--I--I'm locked in.”

“Locked in?”

“Yes, locked in this room. She--she--Oh, consarn it all, Mr. Ellery,
she's locked me in this room a-purpose, so's I won't get out and go
somewheres without her knowin' it.”

“What?”

“Um--h'm; that's what she's done. Did you ever hear of anything like
that in your born days?”

This surprising disclosure was funny enough, but the tone of grieved
indignation in which Mr. Pepper told of his imprisonment was funnier
still. The minister coughed violently and looked the other way.

“She done it a-purpose,” continued Kyan, in a burst of confidence. “She
had me put one of them new-fangled spring locks on the door of this room
t'other day, 'cause she said she was afraid of tramps and wanted some
place to shut herself up in if one of em come. And--and after dinner
to-day she sent me in here for somethin' and then slammed the door on
me. Said she cal'lated I'd stay put till she got back from Thankful's.
She knew mighty well I couldn't get out of the window, 'cause it won't
open no further'n 'tis now. I wa'n't never so provoked in my life.
'Tain't no way to treat your own brother, lockin' him up like a young
one; now, is it?”

Ellery's reply was not made immediately. He had heard numerous stories
concerning this odd household, some of which seemed too absurd for
belief. But this performance was more ridiculous than anything he had
heard.

“'Tain't right, is it, Mr. Ellery?” demanded Kyan.

“Why,” answered the caller chokingly, “I--I--it is rather unusual,
that's a fact. May I ask what you've done to--”

“Done? I ain't done nothin'. She's so darned scared some other woman'll
get my money that--you see, a month or so ago I--I--well, she thought
I done somethin', or was plannin' to do somethin' that--Keziah Coffin
never told you anything about me, did she?”

“No, indeed. What could Mrs. Coffin tell me about you?”

“All right. Nothin', nothin'. Only if she did, tain't so. But I ain't
goin' to stand it no more, Mr. Ellery. Bein' shut up in a darned
old--excuse my swearin', I didn't mean to, though I got reason enough,
land knows--bein' shut up in a room full of trunks and odds and ends is
goin' too fur. I never want to smell old clothes ag'in long's I live.
Would you stand it if you was me, Mr. Ellery?”

“Why, of course I mustn't interfere in your family matters, Mr. Pepper.
Perhaps I'd better call some other time. Good afternoon.”

“Hold on! hold on! you ain't answered me yet. You're a minister and I
go to your meetin' house. Tell me what you'd do if you was me. Would you
stand it?”

Ellery laughed aloud.

“No,” he said, “I suppose I shouldn't.”

“I bet you wouldn't! What would you do?”

“I don't know. You're of age, Mr. Pepper, and you must decide for
yourself. I think I should declare my independence. Really, I must go.
I--”

“Don't be in such a hurry. I want advice. I need it. And, so fur's
DECLARIN' goes, that don't do me no good. She can declare more things in
a minute than I can think of in a week. Tongue! I never heard--No, no!
Never mind the declarin'. What would you DO? S'posin' you wanted to go
outdoor without havin' her tagged to your coat tails, how'd you stop the
taggin'?”

The absurdity of the affair was too much for the visitor. He roared a
“Ha, ha!” that caused Abishai to wave a warning hand beneath the sash.

“Ss-h-h! sshh!” he hissed. “Folks'll hear ye, and I'd be so ashamed if
they did that I wouldn't dast to show my head. Can't show much of it,
anyhow, just now. By gum! I'll do somethin' desperate. I--I dunno as I
won't pizen her. I--”

“Hush! hush! you mustn't talk that way. I'm afraid you must be very
fascinating, Mr. Pepper. If your sister is so very fearful of your
meeting other women, it must be because she has good reason to fear.”

“Stop your foolishness! Oh!--I--I ask your pardon, Mr. Ellery. That
ain't no way to talk to a minister. But I'm goin' to go out when I want
to if I bust a hole through the clapboards. I AIN'T fascinatin'. You ask
any woman--except her--if I be, and see what they say. What'll I DO?”

“Ha, ha! I don't know, I'm sure. You might lock HER up, I suppose, just
for a change.”

“Hey!” There was a sound from behind the pane as if the imprisoned one
had slapped his knee. “By gum! I never thought of that. Would you now,
Mr. Ellery? Would you? Sshh! sshh! somebody's comin'. Maybe it's her.
Run around to the door, Mr. Ellery, quick. And don't tell her I've seen
you, for mercy sakes! Don't now, will ye? Please! Run!”

The minister did not run, but he walked briskly around the corner.
Sure enough, Lavinia was there, just unlocking the door. She expressed
herself as very glad to see the caller, ushered him into the sitting
room and disappeared, returning in another moment with her brother, whom
she unblushingly said had been taking a nap. Abishai did not contradict
her; instead, he merely looked apprehensively at the minister.

The call was a short one. Lavinia did seven eighths of the talking and
Ellery the rest. Kyan was silent. When the visit was over, Miss Pepper
escorted her guest to the door and bade him a voluble good-by. Over
her shoulder the minister saw Kyan making frantic signs to him;
he interpreted the signals as a request for secrecy concerning the
interview by the window.

Several times during the remainder of that week he surprised his
housekeeper by suddenly laughing aloud when there was, apparently,
nothing to laugh at. He explained these outbursts by saying that he
had thought of something funny. Keziah suggested that it must be mighty
funny to make him laugh in the middle of sermon writing.

“I've heard sermons that were funny,” she said, “though they wasn't
intended to be; but what I've heard of yours ain't that kind. I wish
you'd let me in on the joke. I haven't been feelin' like laughin' for
the last fortni't.”

She had been rather grave and preoccupied, for her, of late. Bustling
and busy she always was, never sitting down to “rest,” as she called it,
without a lap full of sewing. The minister's clothes were mended and his
socks darned as they had not been since his mother's day. And with
him, at meal times, or after supper in the sitting room, she was always
cheerful and good-humored. But he had heard her sigh at her work, and
once, when she thought herself unobserved, he saw her wipe her eyes with
her apron.

“No, no,” she protested, when he asked if anything had gone wrong. “I'm
all right. Got a little cold or somethin', I guess, that's all.”

She would not give any other explanation and absolutely refused to see
the doctor. Ellery did not press the matter. He believed the “cold” to
be but an excuse and wondered what the real trouble might be. It seemed
to him to date from the evening of his chapel experience.

He told no one, not even her, of Kyan's confidential disclosure, and,
after some speculation as to whether or not there might be a sequel, put
the whole ludicrous affair out of his mind. He worked hard in his study
and at his pastoral duties, and was conscious of a pleasant feeling that
he was gaining his people's confidence and esteem.

A week from the following Sunday he dined in state at the Daniels's
table. Captain Elkanah was gracious and condescending. Annabel was more
than that. She was dressed in her newest gown and was so very gushing
and affable that the minister felt rather embarrassed. When, after the
meal was over, Captain Elkanah excused himself and went upstairs for
his Sabbath nap, the embarrassment redoubled. Miss Annabel spoke very
confidentially of her loneliness, without “congenial society,” of
how VERY much she did enjoy Mr. Ellery's intellectual sermons, and
especially what a treat it had been to have him as a guest.

“You must dine here every Sunday,” she said. “It will be no trouble at
all, and if you say no, I shall feel that it is because you don't want
to see me--FATHER and me, of course, I mean.”

The minister didn't accept this pressing invitation; on the other
hand, he could not refuse it absolutely. He did not like Miss Daniels
overmuch, but she was the daughter of his leading parishioner and she
and her parent did seem to like him. So he dodged the issue and said she
was very kind.

He left the big house as soon as he could without giving offense, and
started back toward the parsonage. But the afternoon was so fine and the
early summer air so delightful that he changed his mind and, jumping the
fence at the foot of Cannon Hill, set off across the fields toward the
bluffs and the bay shore.

The sun was low in the west as he entered the grove of pines on the
bluff. The red light between the boughs made brilliant carpet patterns
on the thick pine needles and the smell was balsamy and sweet. Between
the tree trunks he caught glimpses of the flats, now partially covered,
and they reminded him of his narrow escape and of Nat Hammond, his
rescuer. He had met the captain twice since then, once at the store and
again on the main road, and 

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