The hysterical Mr. Pepper doubtless expected his clergyman to be almost as much upset as he was by the news of his action. But John Ellery was provokingly calm. As a matter of fact he scarcely grasped the purport of the little man's disjointed story. He had been wandering in dreamland, his head among the clouds, and the explosion of Keziah's bomb disturbed, but did not clear the air.

“What will you do?” he repeated. “Why—er—I don't know, I'm sure.”

Kyan was staggered.

“You don't know?” he shouted. “YOU don't? Then who does, for the land sakes? Didn't you tell me to lock her up? Didn't I do it 'CAUSE you told me? Didn't—didn't—”

He seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy. Also he had raised his voice to a yell. The minister seized him by the arm and shook him into silence.

“Hush! hush!” he commanded. “Wait a minute. Let me understand this thing. Some one is locked up, you say. Who is it? Where—”

“WHO is it? Ain't I tellin' you. It's Laviny. She went into that spare room where I was t'other day and I slammed the spring lock to on her. Then I grabbed the key and run. That was afore three this afternoon; now it's 'most night and I ain't dast to go home. What'll she say when I let her out? I got to let her out, ain't I? She can't starve to death in there, can she? And YOU told me to do it! YOU did! Oh—”

The apoplectic attack was once more imminent.

“Stop it, Mr. Pepper,” ordered Ellery. “I don't remember telling you to lock your sister up, though—Why, yes, I may have said something or other, as a joke, but I didn't expect you would seriously consider doing such a thing. Ha, ha! This is the most idiotic piece of business that I ever—”

“Be you laughin'?” demanded the shocked Abishai. “LAUGHIN'? Why, my godfreys mighty! Idiotic? Well, who's the idiot? 'Tain't me! I'D never have thought of such a fool trick. But you said—”

“Hush! Let me think. Have you told anybody?”

“TOLD anybody! I guess NOT. And nobody'll never know if they wait for me to tell 'em.”

“Well, then, I don't see why you can't go home and—hum—I don't like to advise your telling a lie, but you might let her infer that it was an accident. OR, if you really mean to be your own master, you can tell her you did it purposely and will do it again if she ever tries the trick on you.”

“I tell her that! I tell her! O Mr. Ellery, DON'T talk so. You don't know Laviny; she ain't like most women. If I should tell her that she'd—I don't know's she wouldn't take and horsewhip me. Or commit suicide. She's said she would afore now if—if—”

“Nonsense! She won't do that, you needn't worry.” He burst into another laugh, but checked himself, as he saw the look of absolute distress on poor Kyan's face.

“Never mind, Mr. Pepper,” he said. “We'll think of some plan to smooth matters over. I'll go home with you now and we'll let her out together.”

“Will you, Mr. Ellery? Will you, honest? Say, by godfreys mighty, I'd get down on my knees and thank you this minute if—if I wa'n't in such a hurry. Come right on; come quick!”

It was a silent procession of two that wended its way out of the pines and across the fields, by the brook and the pond, where the evening mists were rising and the frogs chanting their good-night song, through the gathering twilight shades, across the main road and up the lighthouse lane. Kyan, his mind filled with fearful forebodings, was busily trying to think of a reasonable excuse for the “accidental” imprisonment of his sister. John Ellery was thinking, also, but his thoughts were not of the Peppers.

The little house was dark and still as they approached it. No welcoming light in the dining-room windows, no open door, no shrill voice demanding to know where the wandering brother had been “all this everlastin' time.” Even the hens had gone to roost. Abishai groaned.

“Oh, dear!” he wailed. “I'm scart to death. Where is she? You don't cal'late she's done it, do ye?”

“Done it? Done what?”

“Done the suicidin'. She said she would if—O Laviny!”

“Hush! Be quiet. She's all right. She's in the room where you left her, of course. She couldn't get out, could she? You've got the key. Come in.”

They entered the house. The dining room was dark and quiet. So was the sitting room. The clock ticked, solemn and slow. Kyan clutched at his companion's arm.

“I don't hear her,” he whispered. “You don't s'pose she HAS done it? Godfreys mighty!”

The gloom and mystery were having their effect, even on Mr. Ellery's nerves. His answer also was given in a tense whisper, but with some irritation.

“Hush!” he murmured. “Let go of my wrist. You've pinched it black and blue. Which room did you leave her in? Show me at once.”

Kyan's trembling knees managed to carry him to the little hall leading from the sitting room toward the ell at the side of the house. This hall was almost pitch black. The minister felt his guide's chin whisker brush his ear as the following sentence was literally breathed into it:

“Here—here 'tis,” panted Kyan. “Here's the door. I don't hear nothin', do you? Listen!”

They listened. Not a sound, save the dismal tick of the clock in the room they had left. Ellery knocked on the door.

“Miss Pepper,” he said; “Miss Pepper, are you there?”

Kyan caught his breath. No answer.

“Miss Pepper,” repeated the minister. “Miss Pepper!”

Silence, absolute. Abishai could stand it no longer. He groaned and collapsed on his knees.

“She has!” he moaned. “She's done it and there ain't nothin' in there but her remains. Oh, my soul!”

Ellery, now rather frightened himself, shook him violently.

“Be quiet, you idiot!” he commanded. “We must go in. Give me the key.”

After repeated orders and accompanying shakings, Kyan produced a key. The minister snatched it from his trembling fingers, felt for the keyhole and threw the door open. The little room was almost as dark as the hall and quite as still. There was a distinct smell of old clothes and camphor.

“A match,” demanded Ellery. “Quick!”

“I ain't got none,” quavered Mr. Pepper. “They're all in the box in the settin' room. Oh, my godfreys mighty! What'll I do? What undertaker'll I have? Solon Tripp's the reg'lar one, but Laviny and he had a row and she said she'd come back and ha'nt me if I ever let him touch her rema—Where you goin'? DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!”

The minister was going after a match, and said so. In a moment he returned with several. One of these he lit. The brimstone sputtered, burned blue and fragrant, then burst into a yellow flame.

The little room was empty.

John Ellery drew a breath of relief. Then he laughed.

“Humph!” he exclaimed. “She's gone.”

“GONE? Why, she ain't nuther! Where could she go?”

“I don't know, but she has gone—somewhere. At any rate, she's not here.”

Kyan rose to his feet. His alarm had changed to paralyzed astonishment.

“How could she go?” he repeated. “That window won't open more'n six inches. Laviny ain't what you'd call fleshy, but she never could squeeze through that in this world. And I locked the door, 'cause I heard the click. I—I—I—do you b'lieve in spirits, Mr. Ellery?”

“Nonsense! Come into the sitting room, light a lamp, and let's talk it over.”

The lamp was found and lighted at last. Its radiance brightened the dingy sitting room.

“Do you b'lieve in spirits?” repeated Kyan. “I've heard yarns about folks bein' spirited away, but I never took much stock in 'em. And,” he added with conviction, “'twould take a pretty husky spirit to handle Laviny if she had her mad up. She—Hush! hear that!”

The sound of wheels was heard in the lane by the front gate. A vehicle stopped. Then some one called a hurried good night. Mr. Pepper's fear returned.

“It's her!” he cried. “She's been ahuntin' for me. NOW I'll get it! You stand by me, Mr. Ellery. You got to. You said you would. But how on earth did she get—”

The minister motioned him to silence.

“I'll stand by you,” he whispered. “Don't speak. Leave it to me.”

A step sounded on the back step. The dining-room door was hurriedly thrown open.

“'Bishy,” called Miss Pepper eagerly. “'Bish, where are you?”

“Here—here I be, Laviny,” faltered Kyan.

His sister appeared on the threshold. She was dressed in her Sunday best, flowered poke bonnet, mitts, imitation India shawl, rustling black bombazine gown. She looked at Mr. Pepper then at the minister.

“O Mr. Ellery!” she exclaimed, “be you here?”

The Reverend John admitted his presence. Miss Pepper's demeanor surprised him. She did not seem angry; indeed, she acted embarrassed and confused, as if she, and not her brother, were the guilty party.

“I'm afraid I'm awful late, 'Bishy,” she said. “Have you had your supper?”

Kyan was too perturbed to venture a reply. The sword above his head was quivering on its single hair and he was preparing to dodge the fall. But it did not fall.

“You haven't had any supper, have you?” purred Miss Pepper pityingly. “It's too bad. You poor thing! you must be awful hungry.”

She moved across the room and kissed him. Abishai, who had prepared himself for a different sort of greeting, clutched his chair with both hands. He looked as if he might faint. The minister gazed open-mouthed.

“I'm awful sorry, Mr. Ellery,” gushed Lavinia, removing the bonnet. “You see, I was invited out to ride this afternoon and—and—I went.”

She glanced at her brother, reddened—yes, almost blushed—and continued.

“You know, 'Bishy,” she said “Thankful Payne's cousin's home avisitin' her. He come about that cousin's will—the other cousin that's just died. He's a reel nice man—her live cousin is—keeps a shoe store up to Sandwich, and I used to know him years ago. When I was over to Thankful's t'other day, him and me had quite a talk. We got speakin' of what nice drives there was around Trumet and—and—er—well, he asked me if I wouldn't like to go to ride next Sunday afternoon—that's to-day. And a ride bein' a good deal of a treat to me, I said I would. Thankful was goin', too, but—er—er—she couldn't very well. So Caleb—that's his name, you remember, 'Bishy—he come round with his horse and team about ha'f past three and we started. But I'd no IDEE 'twas so late. I—I—meant to tell you I was goin', 'Bish, but I forgot.”

Kyan had listened to this recital, or explanation, or apology, with a curious succession of expressions passing over his face. He swallowed two or three times, but did not interrupt.

“I'm so sorry I kept you waitin' supper,” gushed Lavinia. “I'll get you a good one now. Oh, well, deary me! I must be gettin' absent-minded. I ain't asked you where you've been all the afternoon.”

Abishai's eyes turned beseechingly toward his promised backer. Ellery could not resist that mute appeal.

“Your brother has been with me for some time, Miss Pepper,” he volunteered.

“Oh, has he? Ain't that nice! He couldn't have been in better comp'ny, I'm sure. But oh, say, 'Bishy! I ain't told you how nigh I come to not gettin' out at all. Just afore Mr. Payne come, I was in that spare room and—you remember I put a spring lock on that door?”

It was here at last. The long-dreaded explosion was imminent. Kyan's chin shook. He braced himself for the blow. The minister prepared to come to the rescue.

“Yes,” went on Lavinia. “I—I put a lock on that door so's I—I could shut the room up when I wanted to. Well, when I was in there this afternoon the wind blew the door shut and—Hey?”

“I—I never said nothin',” panted Kyan.

“Yes, it blew to, the lock clicked, and there I was. If I hadn't had the other key in my pocket I don't know's I wouldn't have been in there yet. That would have been a pretty mess, wouldn't it! He! he! he!”

She laughed shrilly. The minister looked at her, then at her brother, and he, too, burst into a shout of laughter. Kyan did not laugh; yet his grip upon the chair relaxed, and over his countenance was spreading a look of relief, of hope and peace, like a clear sunrise after a stormy night.

“Well, I must go and get supper,” declared Lavinia. “You'll forgive me for leavin' you so, won't you, 'Bishy?”

Mr. Pepper sighed.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I'll forgive you, Laviny.”

“I knew you would. I hope you ain't been too lonesome. Did you miss me? Was you worried?”

“Hey? Yes, I—I missed you consider'ble. I WAS gettin' sort of worried. I didn't s'pose you'd go off to ride with—with a feller and leave me all alone. But I forgive you.” He stopped, drew his hand across his forehead, and then added, “I s'pose I hadn't ought to complain. Maybe I'd better get used to it; I guess likely this is only the beginnin'.”

Lavinia blushed furiously.

“Why, 'Bish!” she exclaimed. “How you do talk! Ain't he awful, Mr. Ellery?”

The Reverend John did not answer. He could not trust himself to speak just then. When he did it was to announce that he must be getting toward home. No, he couldn't stay for supper.

Miss Pepper went into the kitchen, and Abishai saw the visitor to the door. Ellery extended his hand and Kyan shook it with enthusiasm.

“Wa'n't it fine?” he whispered. “Talk about your miracles! Godfreys mighty! Say, Mr. Ellery, don't you ever tell a soul how it really was, will you?”

“No, of course not.”

“No, I know you won't. You won't tell on me and I won't tell on you. That's a trade, hey?”

The minister stopped in the middle of his step.

“What?” he said, turning.

Mr. Pepper merely smiled, winked, and shut the door. John Ellery reflected much during his homeward walk.

The summer in Trumet drowsed on, as Trumet summers did in those days, when there were no boarders from the city, no automobiles or telephones or “antique” collectors. In June the Sunday school had its annual picnic. On the morning of the Fourth of July some desperate spirits among the younger set climbed in at the church window and rang the bell, in spite of the warning threats of the selectmen, who had gone on record as prepared to prosecute all disturbers of the peace to the “full extent of the law.” One of the leading citizens, his name was Daniels, awoke to find the sleigh, which had been stored in his carriage house, hoisted to the roof of his barn, and a section of his front fence tastefully draped about it like a garland. The widow Rogers noticed groups of people looking up at her house and laughing. Coming out to see what they were laughing at, she was provoked beyond measure to find a sign over the front door, announcing “Man Wanted Imediate. Inquire Within.” The door of the Come-Outer chapel was nailed fast and Captain Zeb Mayo's old white horse wandered loose along the main road ringed with painted black stripes like a zebra. Captain Zeb was an angry man, for he venerated that horse.

The storm caused by these outbreaks subsided and Trumet settled into its jog trot. The stages rattled through daily, the packet came and went every little while, occasionally a captain returned home from a long voyage, and another left for one equally long. Old Mrs. Prince, up at the west end of the town, was very anxious concerning her son, whose ship was overdue at Calcutta and had not been heard from. The minister went often to see her and tried to console, but what consolation is there when one's only child and sole support is nobody knows where, drowned and dead perhaps, perhaps a castaway on a desert island, or adrift with a desperate crew in an open boat? And Mrs. Prince would say, over and over again:

“Yes, yes, Mr. Ellery. Thank you. I'm sure you mean to encourage me, but oh, you don't know the things that happen to seafarin' men. I do. I went to sea with my husband for fourteen year. He died on a voyage and they buried him over the vessel's side. I can't even go to his grave. The sea got him, and now if it's taken my Eddie—”

The young clergyman came away from these calls feeling very young, indeed, and woefully inadequate. What DID he know of the great sorrows of life?

The Sunday dinners with the Daniels family were almost regular weekly functions now. He dodged them when he could, but he could not do so often without telling an absolute lie, and this he would not do. And, regularly, when the solemn meal was eaten, Captain Elkanah went upstairs for his nap and the Reverend John was left alone with Annabel. Miss Daniels did her best to be entertaining, was, in fact, embarrassingly confidential and cordial. It was hard work to get away, and yet, somehow or other, at the stroke of four, the minister always said good-by and took his departure.

“What is your hurry, Mr. Ellery?” begged Annabel on one occasion when the reading of Moore's poems had been interrupted in the middle by the guest's sudden rising and reaching for his hat. “I don't see why you always go so early. It's so every time you're here. Do you call at any other house on Sunday afternoons?”

“No,” was the prompt reply. “Oh, no.”

“Then why can't you stay? You know I—that is, pa and I—would LOVE to have you.”

“Thank you. Thank you. You're very kind. But I really must go. Good afternoon, Miss Daniels.”

“Mrs. Rogers said she saw you going across the fields after you left here last Sunday. Did you go for a walk?”

“Er—er—yes, I did.”

“I wish you had mentioned it. I love to walk, and there are SO few people that I find congenial company. Are you going for a walk now?”

“Why, no—er—not exactly.”

“I'm sorry. GOOD-by. Will you come again next Sunday? Of COURSE you will. You know how dreadfully disappointed I—we—shall be if you don't.”

“Thank you, Miss Daniels. I enjoyed the dinner very much. Good afternoon.”

He hurried down the path. Annabel watched him go. Then she did an odd thing. She passed through the sitting room, entered the front hall, went up the stairs, tiptoed by the door of her father's room, and then up another flight to the attic. From here a steep set of steps led to the cupola on the roof. In that cupola was a spyglass.

Annabel opened a window a few inches, took the spyglass from its rack, adjusted it, laid it on the sill of the open window and knelt, the glass at her eye. The floor of the cupola was very dusty and she was wearing her newest and best gown, but she did not seem to mind.

Through the glass she saw the long slope of Cannon Hill, with the beacon at the top and Captain Mayo's house near it. The main road was deserted save for one figure, that of her late caller. He was mounting the hill in long strides.

She watched him gain the crest and pass over it out of sight. Then she shifted the glass so that it pointed toward the spot beyond the curve of the hill, where the top of a thick group of silver-leafs hid the parsonage. Above the tree tops glistened the white steeple of the Regular church. If the minister went straight home she could not see him. But under those silver-leafs was the beginning of the short cut across the fields where Didama had seen Mr. Ellery walking on the previous Sunday.

So Annabel watched and waited. Five minutes, then ten. He must have reached the clump of trees before this, yet she could not see him. Evidently, he had gone straight home. She drew a breath of relief.

Then, being in a happier frame of mind, and the afternoon clear and beautiful, she moved the glass along the horizon, watching the distant white specks across the bay on the Wellmouth bluffs—houses and buildings they were—the water, the shore, the fish weirs, the pine groves. She became interested in a sloop, beating into Wellmouth harbor, and watched that. After a time she heard, in the house below, her father shouting her name.

She gave the glass one more comprehensive sweep preparatory to closing it and going downstairs. As she did this a moving speck came into view and vanished.

Slowly she moved the big end of the spyglass back along the arc it had traveled. She found the speck and watched it. It was a man, striding across the meadow land, a half mile beyond the parsonage, and hurrying in the direction of the beach. She saw him climb a high dune, jump a fence, cross another field and finally vanish in the grove of pines on the edge of the bluff by the shore.

The man was John Ellery, the minister. Evidently, he had not gone home, nor had he taken the short cut. Instead he had walked downtown a long way and THEN turned in to cross the fields and work his way back.

Annabel put down the glass and, heedless of her father's calls, sat thinking. The minister had deliberately deceived her. More than that, he had gone to considerable trouble to avoid observation. Why had he done it? Had he done the same thing on other Sunday afternoons? Was there any real reason why he insisted on leaving the house regularly at four o'clock?

Annabel did not know. Her eyes snapped and her sharp features looked sharper yet as she descended the steps to the attic. She did not know; but she intended to find out.