Keziah was getting worried about her parson. Not concerning his popularity with his congregation. She had long since ceased to worry about that. The young minister's place in his people's regard was now assured, the attendance was increasing, and the Regular church was now on a firmer footing, financially and socially, than it had been in years. Even Mrs. Rogers and Lavinia Pepper had ceased to criticise, except as pertained to unimportant incidentals, and were now among the loudest of the praise chanters. And as Captain Zeb Mayo said: “When Didama and Laviny stops fault-findin', the millennium's so nigh port a feller ought to be overhaulin' his saint uniform.”

But what worried Mrs. Coffin was John Ellery's personal appearance and behavior. He had grown perceptibly thinner during the past month, his manner was distrait, and, worst of all in the housekeeper's eyes, his appetite had fallen off. She tried all sorts of tempting dishes, but the result was discouraging.

“What!” she exclaimed. “Don't want but one piece of huckleberry pie? Why, a week ago you ate three and looked kind of disappointed 'cause the dish was empty. What is the matter? Are you sick?”

“No, Mrs. Coffin,” replied the Reverend John. “No, I'm not sick. I just don't feel hungry, that's all.”

“Hum! Well, I've usually noticed that when a healthy man don't feel hungry at dinner time, 'specially in the huckleberry season, his healthiness is pretty shaky. What does ail you, Mr. Ellery? Got somethin' on your mind? If you have, I'd heave it overboard. Or you might unload it onto me and let me prescribe. I've had consider'ble experience in that kind of doctorin'.”

But the answer was unsatisfactory. Mr. Ellery laughed, changed the subject, and wandered out into the garden, where Keziah saw him, shortly afterwards, intently regarding nothing in particular with a rapt stare. She watched him for a few moments and then, with a puzzled shake of the head, returned to her work. She believed that he was troubled about something and was herself troubled in consequence.

His absent-mindedness was most acute on Sunday evenings, before prayer meeting, and after he had returned from the afternoon at Captain Elkanah's.

“Say, Mr. Ellery,” she said, on one of these Sunday evenings, “do you know, it seems to me that Elkanah's meals must go to your head. Don't have any of his granddad's New England rum, do you? They tell me he's got some of that down cellar that he doles out occasional to his very particular friends. That's the common yarn around town, though I couldn't swear 'twas gospel.”

The minister smiled and denied acquaintanceship with the New England beverage.

“Humph! Then it must be the other thing. You ain't in love, are you?”

The young man started, colored, and was plainly embarrassed.

“In love?” he repeated. “In love, Mrs. Coffin?”

“Yes, in love. Annabel hasn't landed a male at last, has she? She's a line over the side for a long time.”

The hearty laugh with which this was received settled the question of Annabel's success. Keziah was relieved.

“Well, I'm glad of that,” she said. “I ain't got any grudge against Annabel, but neither have I got one against you. Another man in that family would have an easy time in one way, he wouldn't have to do any thinkin' for himself—Elkanah and his daughter would do all that was necessary. So you're not in love. Then I don't know what does ail you. I'll say this, though, for a body that ain't in love you certainly stay with the Danielses a long time. You went there right after meetin' this noon and now it's seven o'clock and you've just got home. And 'twas the same last Sunday and the one before. Been there all the time, have you?”

She knew he had not, because she had seen him pass the parsonage, on the opposite side of the road, two hours before. But she was curious to learn what his reply would be. It was noncommittal.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not all the time. I—er—went for a short walk.”

Before she could inquire concerning that walk he had entered the study and closed the door after him.

During the week which followed this particular conversation he was more absent-minded than ever. There were evenings when he spoke scarcely a word, but sat silent in his chair, while Keziah, looking up from her mending, watched him and guessed and wondered. After he had gone to his room for the night, she would hear him pacing the floor, back and forth, back and forth. She asked no more questions, however; minding her own business was a specialty of Keziah's, and it was a rare quality in Trumet.

Sunday was a cloudy, warm day, “muggy,” so Captain Zeb described it. After the morning service Mr. Ellery, as usual, went home with Captain Daniels and Annabel. Keziah returned to the parsonage, ate a lonely dinner, washed the dishes, and sat down to read a library book. She read for an hour and then, finding it difficult to keep her mind on the story, gave it up, closed the book and, rising, walked to the window. But the misty, hot loneliness of the afternoon, was neither interesting nor cheerful, so she turned away and went upstairs to her own room. Her trunk was in one corner of this room and she unlocked it, taking from a compartment of the tray a rosewood writing case, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a present from her father, who had brought it home from sea when she was a girl.

From the case she took a packet of letters and a daguerreotype. The latter was the portrait of a young man, in high-collared coat, stock, and fancy waistcoat. His hair, worn long over the ears, was smooth with a shine that suggested oil, and in his shirt front was a large pin, which might possibly have been mistaken by a credulous observer for a diamond. Mrs. Coffin looked at the daguerreotype, sighed, shuddered, and laid it aside. Then she opened the packet of letters. Selecting one from the top of the pile, she read it slowly. And, as she read, she sighed again.

She did not hear the back door of the parsonage open and close softly. Nor did she hear the cautious footsteps in the rooms below. What aroused her from her reading was her own name, spoken at the foot of the stairs.

“Keziah! Keziah, are you there?”

She started, sprang up, and ran out into the hall, the letter still in her hand.

“Who is it?” she asked sharply. “Mr. Ellery, is that you?”

“No,” was the answer. “It's me—Nat. Are you busy, Keziah? I want to see you for a minute.”

The housekeeper hurriedly thrust the letter into her waist.

“I'll be right down, Nat,” she answered. “I'm comin'.”

He was in the sitting room when she entered. He was wearing his Sunday suit of blue and his soft felt hat was on the center table. She held out her hand and he shook it heartily.

“Well!” she observed, smiling, “I declare if I don't believe you've got the tiptoe habit. This is the second time you've sneaked into the house and scared me 'most to death. I asked you before if you wa'n't ashamed of yourself and now I ask it again.”

Before he could reply she caught a glimpse of his face.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is the matter? Is anybody sick? Is your father—”

“No, he's all right. That is, he's as well as he has been lately, though that isn't sayin' much.”

“Is Grace—”

“No, she's all right, too, I guess. Been sort of quiet and sorrowful for the last few weeks—or I've seemed to notice that she has—but I cal'late it's nothin' serious. I wouldn't wonder if the same thing that's troublin' her is what ails me.”

“But what is it? Why don't you tell me?”

“I'm goin' to tell you, Keziah. That's what I come here for. I—”

“Sit down, can't you? Don't stand up there like a lighthouse, shuttin' out the whole broadside of the room. You are the BIGGEST thing!”

Captain Hammond selected the most substantial chair in the apartment and sat down upon it. He looked at his friend and shook his head.

“No use, Keziah,” he said. “If I was as deep down in the blues as the bottom of the Whale Deep, a look at that face of yours would pull me to the top again. You're a good woman!”

“Thanks! When I have spare time on my hands I'll practice tryin' to believe that. But what is the trouble, Nat? Out with it.”

“Well, Keziah, it's trouble enough. Dad and I have had a fallin' out.”

Mrs. Coffin's mouth and eyes opened.

“What?” she cried, in utter astonishment.

“Yes. It's true. We had what was next door to a real quarrel after dinner to-day. It would have been a real one if I hadn't walked off and left him. He's as set as the rock of Gibraltar, and—”

“And your foundations ain't given to slippin' much. Nat Hammond, I'm surprised at you! What was it all about? Religion?”

“No, not a sliver of religion in it. If 'twas that, I could dodge, or haul down my colors, if I had to. But it's somethin' worse, enough sight worse. Somethin' I can't do—even for dad—and won't either. Keziah, he's dead set on my marryin' Grace. Says if I don't he'll know that I don't really care a tin nickel for him, or for his wishes, or what becomes of the girl after he's gone.”

“Nat!”

“It's a fact. You see, dad realizes, better'n I thought he did, that his health is pretty shaky and that he is likely to founder 'most any time. He says that don't worry him; if he knew Grace and I were provided for he'd slip his cable with a clean manifest. But the dream of his life, he says, has been that we should marry. And he wants to see it done.”

Keziah was silent for a moment. Then she said slowly:

“And Grace herself? How does she feel about it? Has he spoken to her?”

“I don't know. I guess likely he has. Perhaps that's why she's been so sort of mournful lately. But never mind whether he has or not; I won't do it and I told him so. He got red hot in a jiffy. I was ungrateful and stubborn and all sorts of things. And I, bein' a Hammond, with some of the Hammond balkiness in me, I set my foot down as hard as his. And we had it until—until—well, until I saw him stagger and tremble so that I actually got scared and feared he was goin' to keel over where he stood.

“'Why can't you?' he kept sayin'. 'But WHY can't you? Ain't she a girl anyone would be proud to have for a wife?' 'Course there was no answer to that but yes. Then back he comes again with 'Then why can't you?' At last, bein' frightened, as I said, that he might have another shock or somethin', I said I'd think it over and come away and left him. And I come straight to you. Keziah, what shall I do? What can you say to help me?”

Keziah was silent. She was looking, not at her companion, but at the carpet center of one of the braided rugs on the floor. Her face was very grave and the lines about her mouth seemed to deepen. Her hands, clasped in her lap, tightened one upon the other. But her voice was calm when, at last, she spoke.

“Nat,” she said, “there's only one thing I can say. And that's what your father said: Why can't you?”

The captain sprang from his chair.

“What?” he cried incredulously. “What are you sayin'?”

“Just what your father said, Nat. Why can't you marry Grace? She's a dear, good girl and—”

“That be—keelhauled! Keziah Coffin, you sit there and ask me why I can't marry her! YOU do?”

“Yes, Nat.”

“Keziah, you're crazy! Don't talk to me like that. We're not jokin' now. You know why I can't marry her, nor anyone else in this round world but you.”

“Nat, I can't marry you.”

“I know, I know. You're always sayin' that. But you don't mean it. You can't mean it. Why, you and me have been picked out for each other by the Almighty, Keziah. I swear I believe just that. We went together when we were boy and girl, to parties and such. We was promised when I first went to sea. If it hadn't been for that fool row we had—and 'twas all my fault and I know it—you never would have let that da—that miserable Anse Coffin come near you. And when 'twas too late and you'd married him, the mean, drunken, cruel—”

“Hush, Nat! hush! Stop it!”

“He was, and you know he was. Yes, and worse besides. Runnin' off and leavin' a wife like you to—Oh, my God! when I think I might have been your husband to look out for you and take care of you! That you might have been with me on board my ships. That, when I come down the companion on stormy nights I might have found you there to comfort me and—O Keziah! we aren't young any more. What's the use of foolin'? I want you. I'm goin' to have you. Coffin is dead these ten years. When I heard he was drowned off there in Singapore, all I could say was: 'Serve him right!' And I say it now. I come home then more determined to get you. Say yes, and let's be happy. Do!”

“I can't, Nat.”

“Why not? For Heaven sakes! why not? Don't you care for me? You've let me think—well, at any rate, I have thought you did. You used to. Don't you?”

“Nat, I—I care for you more than anybody else on earth. But I can't marry you. Oh, don't keep askin' it! Please don't. I can't marry you, Nat. No!”

“Well, not now, maybe. Not this month, or even this year, perhaps, but some day—”

“No, Nat. You must listen. There's no use of this goin' on any longer. I mean it. I can't marry you.”

“You won't, you mean.”

“Well, if you wish to think so. Then I won't.”

“But by and by—”

“No, not by and by. Never, Nat. Never.”

He drew his hand across his forehead.

“Never!” he repeated, more to himself than to her.

“Never. Yes, Nat.”

“Then, by the everlastin'! I'll do somethin'—”

“No, no, you won't. Nat Hammond, I know you. You're a great big, brave-hearted, sensible man. You won't be foolish. You'll do—yes, I think you'd better do just what your father asks you to do. Marry Grace, if she wants you and will have you. She'll make you a good wife; you'll learn to care for her, and I know she'll have the best husband that a girl could hope for. And you and I will be friends, just as we've always been, and—”

“Keziah, stop that! Stop it, do you hear! I don't want to listen to such stuff. I tell you I'm past soft soap, and I didn't think you'd give it to me.”

“Nat!”

“Oh, yes, 'Nat'! A lot you care for 'Nat'! Not a reason on God's footstool why you won't have me—except one, and that one that you don't want me.”

“Please, Nat! I can hardly believe this is you. This trouble with your father has upset you. You don't mean what you say. You're not talkin' like yourself and—”

“Stop it, I tell you. I don't feel like myself. I banked on you, Keziah. I've lived for you. And now—O Keziah, take it back! Give me a little hope, just enough to keep my head above water.”

“I'd like to, Nat. I only wish I could. But 'twouldn't be any use. I can't do it.”

He snatched his hat from the table and strode to the door. Turning, he looked at her.

“All right,” he said chokingly. “All right. Good-by.”

His steps sounded on the oilcloth of the kitchen. Then the back door slammed. He was gone.

Keziah started, as if the slam of the door had been an electric shock. During the interview she had been pale and grave but outwardly calm. Now she sank wearily down in the chair from which she had risen and her head dropped forward upon her arms on the table. The letter she had been reading before Captain Nat's arrival fell from her waist to the floor and lay there, its badly spelled and blotted lines showing black and fateful against the white paper. And she cried, tears of utter loneliness and despair.

The clouds thickened as the afternoon passed. The setting sun was hidden behind them; over the horizon of ocean and bay the fog banks were rolling in tumbled, crumpled masses. The shadows in the lonely sitting room deepened. There came a knock at the dining-room door.

Keziah sprang from her chair, smoothed her hair, hastily wiped her eyes, picked up the dropped letter and went to admit the visitor, whoever he or she might be. She was glad of the shadows, they prevented her face from being seen too plainly.

“Good afternoon,” she said, opening the door. “Oh! it's you, is it?”

“Yes,” admitted Abishai Pepper, standing on the stone step, and shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “Yes, Keziah, it's—it's me, thank you.”

“Don't mention it. Well, is Laviny with you?”

“No—o, she ain't. She—she didn't come.”

“Hum! Did she know you was comin'?”

“No—o, I don't cal'late she did.”

“I see. Well, what do you want?”

Mrs. Coffin's welcome was not too cordial. She had laughed many times over Abishai's proposal of marriage, but she had never quite forgiven him for making her ridiculous on that occasion. Incidentally, she did not feel like laughing.

“What do you want?” she repeated.

Kyan was plainly nervous.

“I only wanted to see Mr. Ellery,” he announced. “It's all right, Keziah. You needn't be afraid.”

“Afraid! What on earth should I be afraid of?”

“Why—why, I didn't know but you might be afraid I was goin' to—to talk about what we talked about when I—I talked to you that day up at—”

“There! that'll do. It ain't me that would have reason to be afraid if THAT was what you come for. What do you want? Don't stand there dancin' a jig.”

“I only wanted to see Mr. Ellery.”

“He's out. Good day.”

“But I won't keep him but a minute.”

“He's out, I tell you. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No—o. No, I guess not.”

“Was it important?”

“Oh! I don't know. Kind of, maybe. I wanted to ask his advice about somethin'. It's a secret. Only him and me know about it. Good-by.”

“Shall I tell him you'll call again? Or ask him to come up to your house?”

Mr. Pepper, who had started to go, now hurried back to the steps.

“No, no,” he protested, in alarm. “Don't you tell him that. I wouldn't have him come there for no money. Why, Laviny, she—”

“Oh, Laviny isn't in the secret, then?” Keziah smiled in spite of herself.

“Not exactly. That is, not much. Don't you tell her I come here, will you? I'll find Mr. Ellery. I know where he is.”

“I wouldn't go to the Danielses', if I was you. Elkanah might not like to have you chasin' after his visitors.”

“Oh, the minister ain't at the Danielses', not as late's this, he ain't. I know where he is.”

“You do?” The housekeeper looked at him keenly.

“Yes, sir, I do. I know where he goes Sunday afternoons—and why he goes, too. Mr. Ellery and me's good friends. We understand each other.”

“Look here, Kyan Pepper! What are you talkin' about?”

“Nothin', nothin'. Good day.”

“Stop! Stand still! Come in the house here. I want you to.”

“No, no, Keziah. Really, I'd love to, but I can't stop.”

“Come in, I tell you.”

Reluctantly, but lacking the strength of mind to refuse, Mr. Pepper entered the dining room. Then Mrs. Coffin turned upon him.

“What do you mean,” she demanded, “by throwin' out hints that the minister and you are in some sort of secret? How dare you go round tellin' people such yarns as that?”

“They ain't yarns. And I never told nobody afore, anyhow. I got to move along. I'll—”

“Stay where you are. I guess I'll run right up and ask your sister about this. Perhaps she might—”

“Ss-sh! ss-sh! don't talk that way, Keziah. Don't! Laviny don't know what I mean. Don't go askin' HER things.”

“But you said—”

“I just said I knew where Mr. Ellery goes every Sunday afternoon. He don't know anybody knows, but I do. That's all there is to it. I shan't tell. So—”

“Tell? Do you mean there's somethin' Mr. Ellery wouldn't want told? Don't you dare—I WILL see Laviny!”

“No, no, no, no! 'Tain't nothin' much. I just know where he goes after he leaves Elkanah's and who he goes to meet. I—Lordy! I hadn't ought to said that! I—Keziah Coffin, don't you ever tell I told you. I've said more'n I meant to. If it comes out there'd be the biggest row in the church that ever was. And I'd be responsible! I would! I'd have to go on the witness stand and then Laviny'd find out how I—Oh, oh, oh! what SHALL I do?”

The poor frightened creature's “jig” had, by this time, become a distracted fandango. But the housekeeper had no mercy on him. She was beginning to fear for her parson and, for the time, everything else, her own trouble and the recent interview with Nat, was pushed aside.

“What is it?” she persisted. “WHAT would bring on the row in the church? WHO does Mr. Ellery meet? Out with it! What do you mean?”

“I mean that the minister meets that Van Horne girl every Sunday afternoon after he leaves Elkanah's. There, now! It's out, and I don't give a darn if they hang me for it.”

Keziah turned white. She seized Mr. Pepper by the lapel of his Sunday coat and shook him.

“Grace Van Horne!” she cried. “Mr. Ellery meets Grace Van Horne on Sunday afternoons? Where?”

“Down in them pines back of Peters's pastur', on the aidge of the bank over the beach. He's met her there every Sunday for the last six weeks—longer, for what I know. I've watched 'em.”

“You HAVE? YOU have! You've dared to spy on—I think you're lyin' to me. I don't believe it.”

“I ain't lyin'! It's so. I'll bet you anything they're there now, walkin' up and down and talkin'. What would I want to lie for? You come with me this minute and I'll show 'em to you.”

In the desire to prove his veracity he was on his way to the door. But Keziah stepped in front of him.

“'Bish Pepper,” she said slowly and fiercely, shaking a forefinger in his face, “you go straight home and stay there. Don't you breathe a word to a livin' soul of what you say you've seen. Don't you even think it, or—or dream it. If you do I'll—I'll march straight to Laviny and tell her that you asked me to marry you. I will, as sure as you're shakin' in front of me this minute. Now you swear to me to keep still. Swear!”

“How—HOW'll I swear?” begged Kyan. “What do you say when you swear? I'll say it, Keziah! I'll say anything! I'll—”

“All right. Then mind you remember. Now clear out quick. I want to think. I MUST think. GO! Get out of my sight!”

Kyan went, glad to escape, but frightened to the soul of him. Keziah watched him until he turned from the main road into the lighthouse lane. Then, certain that he really was going straight home, she re-entered the parsonage and sat down in the nearest chair. For ten minutes she sat there, striving to grasp the situation. Then she rose and, putting on her bonnet and shawl, locked the dining-room door, and went out through the kitchen. On the step she looked cautiously back to see if any of the neighbors were at their windows. But this was Sunday, the one day when Trumet people sat in their front parlors. The coast was clear. She hurried through the back yard, and down the path leading across the fields. She was going to the pine grove by the shore, going to find out for herself if Kyan's astonishing story was true.

For if it was true, if the Rev. John Ellery was meeting clandestinely the adopted daughter of Eben Hammond, it meant—what might it not mean, in Trumet? If he had fallen in love with a Come-Outer, with Grace Van Horne of all people, if he should dare think of marrying her, it would mean the utter wreck of his career as a Regular clergyman. His own society would turn him out instantly. All sorts of things would be said, lies and scandal would be invented and believed. His character would be riddled by the Trumet gossips and the papers would publish the result broadcast.

And Grace! If she loved a Regular minister, what would happen to her? Captain Eben would turn her from his door, that was certain. Although he idolized the girl, Keziah knew that he would never countenance such a marriage. And if Nat stood by Grace, as he would be almost sure to do, the breach between father and son would widen beyond healing. If it were merely a matter of personal selection, Mrs. Coffin would rather have seen her parson marry Grace than anyone else on earth. As it was, such a match must not be. It meant ruin for both. She must prevent the affair going further. She must break off the intimacy. She must save those two young people from making a mistake which would—She wrung her hands as she thought of it. Of her own sorrow and trouble she characteristically thought nothing now. Sacrifice of self was a part of Keziah's nature.

The pines were a deep-green blotch against the cloudy sky and the gloomy waters of the bay. She skirted the outlying clumps of bayberry and beach plum bushes and entered the grove. The pine needles made a soft carpet which deadened her footfalls, and the shadows beneath the boughs were thick and black. She tiptoed on until she reached the clearing by the brink of the bluff. No one was in sight. She drew a breath of relief. Kyan might be mistaken, after all.

Then she heard low voices. As she crouched at the edge of the grove, two figures passed slowly across the clearing, along the bush-bordered path and into the shrubbery beyond. John Ellery was walking with Grace Van Horne. He was holding her hand in his and they were talking very earnestly.

Keziah did not follow. What would have been the use? This was not the time to speak. She KNEW now and she knew, also, that the responsibility was hers. She must go home at once, go home to be alone and to think. She tiptoed back through the grove and across the fields.

Yet, if she had waited, she might have seen something else which would have been, at least, interesting. She had scarcely reached the outer edge of the grove when another figure passed stealthily along that narrow path by the bluff edge. A female figure treading very carefully, rising to peer over the bushes at the minister and Grace. The figure of Miss Annabel Daniels, the “belle” of Trumet. And Annabel's face was not pleasant to look upon.