SETH HARDCOME, while not an elder, was one of the most prominent men in the church, and if anything could be said against him it was that he was almost too upright. Men are intended, no doubt, to be more or less miserable sinners, but Seth Hardcome was, to outward view, absolutely irreproachable. He was in the shoe business on the main street. It is a nice, clean business and does not call for much sweat of the brow (a boy can be hired to open the cases) or necessitate rough clothes, and Seth Hardcome was always clean, neat and suave. He was a gentleman, polite and courteous. He sold the best shoe he could give for the money. Among other boots, shoes and slippers he sold gaiters—then quite the fashion—with prunella uppers and elastic gores at the sides. Most of the ladies wore them.

'Thusia needed new gaiters. David's stipend was so small in those days—it was never large—that, with the new baby, he had hard figuring to avoid running into debt and 'Thusia did her share in the matter of economy. She had worn her old gaiters until they were hardly fit to wear. The elastic had rotted and hung in warped folds; the gaiters had been soled and resoled and the soles were again in holes; finally one of the gaiters broke through at the side of the foot. 'Thusia could not go out of the house in such footwear and she asked David to stop at Hardcome's for a new pair. She wrote the size on a slip of paper.

“The black prunella gaiters, David; the same that I always get. Mr. Hardcome will know,” she said.

David bought the gaiters. He handed Mr. Hardcome the slip of paper, and Mr. Hardcome himself went to the shelves and selected the gaiters. He wrapped them with his own hands. This was a Monday, and not until the next Sunday did 'Thusia have occasion to wear the gaiters. It was a day following a rain, and the streets were awash with yellow mud. 'Thusia came home limping, her poor little toes crimped in the ends of the gaiters.

“My poor, poor feet!” she cried. “David, I nearly died; I'm sure you never preached so long in your life. Oh, I'll be glad to get these off!”

She pulled off one of the offending gaiters and looked at the sole. The size stamped on the sole was a size smaller than 'Thusia wore. The next day David returned the gaiters to Mr. Hardcome. Mr. Hardcome's professional smile fled as David explained. He shook his head sorrowfully as he opened the parcel and looked at the shoes. There was yellow clay on the heels and a spattering of yellow clay on the prunella.

“Too bad!” said Mr. Hardcome, still shaking his head. “She's worn them.”

“Yes; to church, yesterday,” David said. “I'm sorry,” said Mr. Hardcome, and he really was sorry, “I can't take them back. My one invariable rule; boots or shoes I sometimes exchange, but gaiters never! After they have been worn I cannot exchange gaiters.”

“But in this case,” said David, “when they were the wrong size? You remember my wife herself wrote the size on a slip. It doesn't seem, when it was not her error—”

“That, of course,” said Mr. Hardcome with a sad smile, “we cannot know. I am not likely to have made a mistake. Mrs. Dean should have tried the shoes before she wore them.”

David did not argue. He had the average man's reluctance to exchange goods, particularly when soiled, and he bought and paid for another pair, and nothing more might have come of it had 'Thusia not happened to know that old Mrs. Brown wore gaiters a size smaller than herself.

'Thusia did not give the gaiters to Mrs. Brown without first having tried to get Mr. Hardcome to take them back. She went herself. David's money must not be wasted if she could prevent it, and it is a fact that when she left Mr. Hardcome's store she left in something of a huff. She cared nothing whatever for Mr. Hardcome's rules, but she was angry to think he should suggest that she had written the wrong size on the slip of paper. Mr. Hardcome was cold and polite; he bowed her out of the store as politely as he would have bowed out Mrs. Derling or any other lady customer, but he was firm. It was natural enough that 'Thusia should tell the story to old Mrs. Brown when she gave her the gaiters.

From Mrs. Brown the story of the black prunella gaiters circulated from one lady to another, changing form like a putty ball batted from hand to hand, until it reached Mrs. Hardcome. One, or it may have been two, Sundays later David, coming down from his pulpit, found Mr. Hardcome—white-faced and nervous—waiting for him. Suspecting nothing David held out his hand. Mr. Hardcome ignored it.

“If you have one minute, Mr. Dean,” he said in the hard voice of a man who has been put up to something by his wife, “I would like to have a word with you.”

“Why, certainly,” said David.

“It has come to my ears,” said Mr. Hardcome, “that your wife is circulating a report that I am untruthful.”

David almost gasped with astonishment. He could not imagine 'Thusia doing any such thing.

“I do not hold you in any way responsible for what your wife may say or do, Mr. Dean,” said Mr. Hardcome in the same hard voice. “I do not believe for one moment that you have sanctioned any such slanderous remarks. I have the utmost respect and affection for you, but I tell you, Mr. Dean”—his voice shook with the anger he tried to control—“that woman—your wife—must apologize! I will not have such reports circulated about me! That is all. I merely expect you to do your duty. If your wife will apologize I will do my duty as a Christian and say no more about it.”

David, standing in amazement, chanced to look past Mr. Hardcome, and he saw many of his congregation watching him. He had not the slightest idea of what Mr. Hardcome was speaking, but he felt, with the quick intuition of a sensitive man, that these others knew and were keen to catch his attitude as he answered. He put his hand on Mr. Hardcome's arm.

“This must be some mistake, Hardcome,” he said. “I have not a doubt it can all be satisfactorily explained. My people are waiting for me now. Can you come to the house to-night? After the sermon! That's good!”

He let his hand slide down Mr. Hardcome's sleeve and stepped forward, extending his hand for the shaking of hands that always awaited him after the service. Before he reached the door his brow was troubled. Not a few seemed to yield their hands reluctantly; some had manifestly hurried away to avoid him. 'Thusia, always the center of a smiling group, stood almost alone in the end of her pew. He saw Mrs. Hardcome sweep past 'Thusia without so much as a glance of recognition.

On the way home he spoke to 'Thusia. She knew at once that the trouble must be something about the black prunella gaiters.

“But, David,” she said, looking full into his eyes, “he is quite wrong if he says I said anything about untruthfulness. I have never said anything like that. I have never said anything about him or the gaiters except to old Mrs. Brown. I did tell her I was quite sure I had written the correct size on the slip of paper I gave you. But I never, never said Mr. Hardcome was untruthful!”

“Then it will be very easily settled,” said David. “We will tell him that when he comes to-night.”

Mr. Hardcome did not go to David's alone. When David opened the door it was quite a delegation he faced. Mrs. Hardcome was with her husband, and old Sam Wiggett, Ned Long and James Cruser filed into the little parlor behind them. David met them cheerfully. He placed chairs and stood with his back to the door, his hands clasped behind him. 'Thusia sat at one side of the room. David smiled.

“I have spoken to my wife,” he said, “and—”

“If you will pardon me for one minute, Mr. Dean,” said Mrs. Hardcome, interrupting him. “I do not wish to have any false impressions. I do not want my husband blamed, if there is any blame. I want it understood that I insisted that he ask for this apology. I am not the woman to have my husband called a—called untruthful without doing something about it. It is not for me to say that plenty of us thought you made a mistake when you chose a wife, that is neither here nor there. A man marries as he pleases. We don't ask anything unreasonable. If Mrs. Dean will apologize—”

Little 'Thusia, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked up at David with wistful eagerness. David, stern enough now, shook his head.

“I have spoken to my wife,” he said, “and I have her assurance that she has never said anything whatever in the least reflecting on Mr. Hardcome's veracity. Neither she nor I can say more.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Hardcome in a shocked tone, glancing at her husband as if to say: “So she is lying about this too!” Mr. Hardcome arose and took up his hat.

“We came in a most forgiving spirit, Brother Dean, feeling sure, from what you told me, that an apology would be given without quibble. We wished to avoid all anger and quarreling. If we begin a dispute as to what Mrs. Dean said or did not say we cannot tell what unpleasantness may result. I am taking this stand not to protect myself, but to protect others in our church who may be similarly attacked. We wish Mrs. Dean to apologize.”

“Mrs. Dean cannot apologize for what she has not done.”

There was no mistaking David's tone. If he was angry he hid his anger; he was stating an unchangeable fact.

When he and 'Thusia were alone again she cried in his arms; she told him it would have been better if he had let her apologize—that she did not care, she would rather apologize a thousand times than make trouble for him—but David was firm. Old Sam Wiggett, on the way home, told the Hardcomes they had been fools; that they had been offered all they had a right to ask. It was not, however, his quarrel. Mrs. Hardcome was the offended party, and Mrs. Hardcome would hear of nothing less than an apology.

In a week or less the church was plunged into all the mean pettiness of a church quarrel. The black prunella gaiters and the slip of paper with the shoe size were, while not forgotten, almost lost in the slimy mass of tattle and chatter. James Cruser in a day changed from a partisan of the Hardcomes to a bitter enemy, because Mrs. MacDorty told Mrs. Cruser that Mrs. Hardcome had said Mr. Cruser was trying to befriend both sides and was double-faced. Ned Long, looming as the leader of the Hardcome faction, told of a peculiar mortgage old James P. Wardop had—he said—extorted from Widow Wilmot, and Mr. Wardop became the staunchest supporter of David, although he had always said David was the worst preacher a man ever sat under. It was—“and she's a nice one to stick up for the Deans when everybody knows”—and—“but what else can you expect from a man like him, who was mean enough to”—and so on.

'Thusia wept a great many tears when she was not with David. The quarrel was like a wasp-like a nest of wasps. From whatever quarter a stinging bit of maliciousness set out, and whoever it stung in its circling course, it invariably ended at 'Thusia's door. In a short time the affair had become a bitter factional quarrel. There were those who supported Mr. Hardcome and those who supported Mr. Wardop, but the fight became a battle to drive 'Thusia out of Riverbank and the result threatened to be the same, whichever side finally considered itself beaten. Many would leave the church.

During those weeks David's face became thin and drawn. Even the actions of his closest friend, Dr. Benedict, hurt him, for Benedict refused to remain neutral and became a raging partisan for David. The old bachelor—while he never admitted it—adored 'Thusia and since he had been dubbed “Uncle” he considered her his daughter (a mixing of relationships) and nothing 'Thusia could do was wrong. He hurt David's cause by his violence. Even 'Thusia's own father, Mr. Fragg, was less partisan. David tried to act as peacemaker, but soon the quarrel seemed to have gone beyond any adjustment.

Mary Wiggett went home from her father's office deeply hurt because her father was uncompromisingly against David. Ellen Hardcome was delighted. With old Sam Wiggett on her side she was sure of victory, and when she left Mary she set about planning a final blow against David. She found her husband in his shoe store and told him of the manner in which old Wiggett had refused to help Mary. Together Ellen and her husband discussed the best method of administering the coup de grÂce. Hardcome, being neither an elder nor a trustee, doubted the advisability of forcing the matter immediately upon the attention of either body, for he was not yet sure enough of them. The decision finally reached was to ask for an unofficial meeting at which the opposition to David could be crystallized—a meeting made up of enough prominent members of the church to practically overawe any undecided elders and trustees. With Sam Wiggett at the head of such a meeting no one could doubt the result. David would have to go.

Hardcome's first step was to see Sam Wiggett, for he desired, above all else, to have Wiggett call the meeting. The stubborn old man refused.

“I'm with you,” he said. “That wife of Dean's made all this trouble, but I never sold her a shoe. You started this; call your own meeting.”

“You'll attend!” asked Hardcome.

“Yes.”

“And may we make you chairman!”

“Yes.”

“There may be some there who will try to talk down any motion or resolution we may want to pass—”

“You leave them to me!” said Wiggett.

Of the proposed meeting Mary knew nothing. She planned to run down to see David and 'Thusia after supper, although she had but faint hope of inducing David to leave Riverbank for a “vacation” now that her father had refused his aid. Wiggett, who still remained the head of his household, although Mary and her husband were nominally in control, ate his supper in grim silence and nothing was said about David or the church affairs. Nor did Mary run down to the manse after supper as she had planned. When the meal was half finished her nurse called her away from the supper table to see her child, who was suddenly feverish and “stopped up.” Mary did not return, and Derling, when he had ended his meal, found her holding the little one in her arms.

“George,” she said, “I'm worried about baby. I'm afraid he's sick. Touch his cheek; see how hot he is. Go for Dr. Benedict. I'm frightened.”

“Benedict!” said Derling. “What do you want that fellow for! I won't have him in the house. I'll get Martin. I won't have Benedict, always hanging about that dear dominie of yours!”

“He's jealous!” thought Mary with a sudden inward gasp of surprise. She bent forward and brushed the baby's hair from the hot forehead. That Derling could be jealous of David Dean had never occurred to Mary. Her marriage had been so completely an alliance of fortune rather than of love, and Derling had seemed so indifferent and lacking in affection, that she had never even considered that jealousy might have a part in his nature. Derling, she knew, conducted plenty of flirtations on his own side; some were rather notorious affairs; but Mary was conscious of never having overstepped the lines set for a good wife. She did not deny to herself that she felt still a great affection for David, and she felt that for David to leave Riverbank would be the greatest sorrow of her life, but she had never imagined that Derling might think he had cause for jealousy.

Derling was, however, like many men who are willing to flirt with other women, an extremely jealous man. He was jealous of the time and attention Mary gave the dominie. Derling had, therefore, thrown himself into the ranks of the Hardcome adherents, and he had been one of those who ran afoul of old Dr. Benedict's keen tongue. Some of the advice Benedict had given him would have done him good had he acted on it, but it cut deep. The old doctor knew human nature and how to make it squirm.

“Benedict is so much better with children, George,” said Mary, looking up. “He seems to work miracles, sometimes.”

“If he came in this house, I would throw him out,” said Derling. “I won't have him. That's flat!”

“Well, get Martin then, but I don't have the faith in him I have in Benedict,” Mary said.

Martin came. He said it was nothing, that the child had a croupy cold and he left a powder for the fever and advised Mary what to do in case the child got worse during the night. When he came the next day he said the boy was much better. That evening Derling, sent downtown for medicine, heard at the druggist's that 'Thusia's child had diphtheria and that there was a fresh outbreak of the disease in town. He drove his horse home at a gallop and found Martin there, and Mary, white and panic-stricken, wringing her hands. When the young doctor admitted that the child had diphtheria Derling, in a rage, almost threw him out of the house. A slight fever was one thing, the dread disease was quite another, and he left Mary weeping, and lashed his horse in search of Dr. Benedict.

The old doctor was not at home; Derling found him at David's and found him in a tearing rage. Mrs. Hardcome, hoping to force David's resignation, had just called to warn David that if he wished to protect himself he must attend the meeting the next evening. Benedict was still spluttering with anger and tramping up and down David's little study, when Derling found him.

“You!” he shouted. “Go to your house! I'd let you all rot first, the whole lot of you. Go get your Martin, you called him quick enough. I wouldn't go if you got on your knees to me. You and your dog-faced father-in-law and your Hardcomes, trying to drive this poor girl out of town! If this was my house I'd throw you out. I will anyway! Get out!”

Poor Derling—harmless enough creature—did all but get on his knees. He went away haggard, and looking twenty years older, to find some other physician. He got Wagenheim, a poor substitute. In fact there was no substitute for Benedict. It may have been that luck favored him, but the old doctor seemed able to wrest children from the clutches of the awful disease far oftener than other physicians. Derling felt that the angry old doctor had condemned his son to death. With the witlessness of a distracted man he tried to find Rose Hinch at her room on the main street, thinking Rose might plead for him with Benedict. He might have known Rose would be with 'Thusia in such an hour of trial. He went home, dreading to face Mary, and found Wagenheim doing what he could, which was little enough. Mary was not there.

When Wagenheim came Mary had guessed that Derling had not got Benedict, and she guessed why. She ran, half dressed and hatless as she was, all the way to the manse. In her agony she still thought clearly; Benedict would be there, and if he was not there David would be, and in David—calm and faithful to all his people even when they turned against him—she placed her hope. In the dark she could not find the bell and she was fumbling at the door when it opened and 'Thusia stood before her, silhouetted against the light. With the impulse of one suffering mother in the presence of another, Mary grasped 'Thusia's arms.

“'Thusia!” she cried. “My boy is dying and Benedict won't come. Can't you make him come? He knows, and he won't come!”

'Thusia drew back in horror.

“He knows? And he won't go?” she exclaimed. “But Mary, he must go! Why—why—but he must go, Mary! I don't understand! Benedict—won't—go?”

She turned and flew to the study where Benedict had usurped David's easy-chair. She stood before him, one mother pleading for another. No one but the three—Benedict and 'Thusia and Mary—will ever know what she said, but when she had said it old Benedict drew himself out of the chair and went with Mary.

A week later little Davy, 'Thusia's child, died. Mary was more fortunate; her boy recovered and although it was long before he was strong again Mary treasured him all the more. Rose Hinch, her work at David's ended, went to her and for many weeks was like another mother to the sick child.

But it was the night following old Benedict's denunciation of Derling and all the Hardcome clique that David Dean found a new supporter. The meeting that was to end his stay in Riverbank was to be held in Ned Long's office and David went early, not to be accused of cowardice. He left 'Thusia and Rose with the boy, drove old Benedict away, and went alone. He walked slowly, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him, for he had no hope left. It was so he came to the foot of Ned Long's office stairs and face to face with old Sam Wiggett standing in the dark of the entry. He stopped short, for the bulky old man did not move aside.

“Huh!” growled the old lumberman. “So it's you, is it? What are you doing here?”

“There's a meeting—” David began.

“Meeting? No, by the eternal! there's not going to be any meeting, now nor ever! I'll throw them out neck and crop; I'll boot them out, but there'll be no meeting. Go home!” In the dark the heavy-jowled old man scowled at the slender young dominie. Suddenly he put his hand on David's shoulder. “Dean—Dean—” he said; “you and that little wife of yours—” That was all he could say. Mary's boy, at home, was making the awful struggle for life.

And there was no meeting. A month later Mr. and Mrs. Hardcome went to the Episcopalians, and a half year later to the Congregationalists, where they remained. There was a lull in the church quarrel during the days when little Davy was sickest, and while David and 'Thusia were in the first cruel days of grief. There were but few bitter enough to wish to take up the fight again against the sorrowing 'Thusia. The quarrel was buried with little Davy, for when David entered the pulpit again, and the congregation waited to learn how their leaders would lead them, the powerful man of the church decided for them. When David came down from the pulpit old Sam Wiggett, stolid, heavy-faced and thick-necked, waited for him at the head of the aisle and placed his arm around David's shoulders, and Mary Derling crossed the aisle and stood beside 'Thusia Dean.

David had won.