At the edge of the bluff, just where the pines and the bayberry bushes were thickest, where the narrow, crooked little footpath dipped over the rise and down to the pasture land and the salt meadow, John Ellery and Grace had halted in their walk. It was full tide and the miniature breakers plashed amid the seaweed on the beach. The mist was drifting in over the bay and the gulls were calling sleepily from their perch along the breakwater. A night hawk swooped and circled above the tall “feather grass” by the margin of the creek. The minister's face was pale, but set and determined, and he was speaking rapidly.

“I can't help it,” he said. “I can't help it. I have made up my mind and nothing can change it, nothing but you. It rests with you. If you say yes, then nothing else matters. Will you say it?”

He was holding both her hands now, and though she tried to withdraw them, he would not let her.

“Will you?” he pleaded.

“I can't,” she answered brokenly. “I can't. Think of your church and of your people. What would they say if—”

“I don't care what they say.”

“Oh! yes, you do. Not now, perhaps, but later you will. You don't know Trumet as I know it. No, it's impossible.”

“I tell you there is only one impossible thing. That is that I give you up. I won't do it. I CAN'T do it! Grace, this is life and death for me. My church—”

He paused in spite of himself. His church, his first church! He had accepted the call with pride and a determination to do his best, the very best that was in him, for the society and for the people whom he was to lead. Some of those people he had learned to love; many of them, he felt sure, loved him. His success, his popularity, the growth of the organization and the praise which had come to him because of it, all these had meant, and still meant, very much to him. No wonder he paused, but the pause was momentary.

“My church,” he went on, “is my work and I like it. I believe I've done some good here and I hope to do more. But no church shall say whom I shall marry. If you care for me, Grace, as I think and hope you do, we'll face the church and the town together, and they will respect us for it.”

She shook her head.

“Some of them might respect you,” she said. “They would say you had been led into this by me and were not so much to blame. But I—”

“They shall respect my wife,” he interrupted, snapping his teeth together, “or I'll know the reason why.”

She smiled mournfully.

“I think they'll tell you the reason,” she answered. “No, John, no! we mustn't think of it. You can see we mustn't. This has all been a mistake, a dreadful mistake, and I am to blame for it.”

“The only mistake has been our meeting in this way. We should have met openly; I realize it, and have felt it for sometime. It was my fault, not yours. I was afraid, I guess. But I'll not be a coward any longer. Come, dear, let's not be afraid another day. Only say you'll marry me and I'll proclaim it openly, to-night—Yes, from the pulpit, if you say so.”

She hesitated and he took courage from her hesitation.

“Say it,” he pleaded. “You WILL say it?”

“I can't! I can't! My uncle—”

“Your uncle shall hear it from me. We'll go to him together. I'll tell him myself. He worships you.”

“Yes, I know. He does worship me. That's why I am sure he had rather see me dead than married to you, a Regular, and a Regular minister.”

“I don't believe it. He can't be so unreasonable. If he is, then you shouldn't humor such bigotry.”

“He has been my father for years, and a dear, kind father.”

“I know. That's why I'm so certain we can make him understand. Come, dear! come! Why should you consider everyone else? Consider your own happiness. Consider mine.”

She looked at him.

“I am considering yours,” she said. “That is what I consider most of all. And, as for uncle, I know—I KNOW he would never consent. His heart is set on something else. Nat—”

“Nat? Are you considering him, too? Is HE to stand between us? What right has he to say—”

“Hush! hush! He hasn't said anything. But—but he and uncle have quarreled, just a little. I didn't tell you, but they have. And I think I know the reason. Nat is Uncle Eben's idol. If the quarrel should grow more serious, I believe it would break his heart. I couldn't bear to be the cause of that; I should never forgive myself.”

“You the cause? How could you be the cause of a quarrel between those two? Grace, think of me.”

Here was the selfishness of man and the unselfishness of woman answered.

“John,” she said, “it is of you I am thinking. Everything else could—might be overcome, perhaps. But I must think of your future and your life. I MUST. That is why—”

He did not wait to hear more. He seized her in his arms and kissed her.

“Then you DO care!” he cried joyfully. “You will marry me?”

For an instant she lay quiet in his embrace, receiving, if not responding to his caresses. Then she gently but firmly freed herself. He saw that there were tears in her eyes.

“Grace,” he urged, “don't—don't hesitate any longer. You were meant to be my wife. We were brought together for just that. I know it. Come.”

She was crying softly.

“Won't you?” he begged.

“I don't know,” she sobbed. “Oh, I don't know! I must think—I MUST! Wait, please wait, John. Perhaps by to-morrow I can answer. I'll try—I'll try. Don't ask me again, now. Let me think. Oh, do!”

Doubtless he would have asked her again. He looked as if he meant to. But just then, drifting through the twilight and the mist, came the sound of a bell, the bell of the Regular church, ringing for the Sunday evening meeting. They both heard it.

“Oh!” exclaimed Grace, “that is your bell. You will be late. You must go, and so must I. Good night.”

She started down the path. He hesitated, then ran after her.

“To-morrow?” he questioned eagerly. “Tomorrow, then, you'll say that you will?”

“Oh, perhaps, perhaps! I mustn't promise. Good night.”

It was after seven when Grace reached the old tavern. The housekeeper, Mrs. Poundberry, was anxiously awaiting her. She wore her bonnet and Sunday gown and was evidently ready to go out.

“Land sakes alive!” she sputtered. “Where in the name of goodness have you been to? I was gettin' scairt. Didn't know but you'd run off and got married, or sunthin' dreadful.”

Grace was thankful that the cloudy twilight made it impossible to see her face distinctly. The housekeeper rattled on without waiting for an answer.

“Supper's on the table and the kittle's abilin'. You better eat in a hurry, 'cause it's meetin' time now. Your uncle, he started ten minutes ago. I'm agoin' right along, too, but I ain't goin' to meetin'; I'm agoin' up to Betsy E.'s to stay all night. She's got a spine in her back, as the feller said, and ain't feelin' good, so I told her I'd come and stay a little spell. S'pose you can get along to-morrow without me?”

“Betsy E.” was Mrs. Poundberry's second cousin, an elderly spinster living alone in a little house near the salt works. Grace assured her questioner that she could attend to the house and the meals during the following day, longer if the troublesome “spine” needed company. Mrs. Poundberry sighed, groaned, and shook her head.

“I shan't stay no longer,” she affirmed; “not if Betsy's all over spines, like one of them Mexican cactus plants. No, marm, my place is right here and I know it. Your Uncle Eben's mighty feeble and peaked lately. He ain't long for this world, I'm afraid. You'd ought to be awful good to him, Gracie.”

“I know it,” was the hurried reply. “Where's Nat?”

“I don't know. Can't keep track of HIM. Might's well try to put your finger on a flea. He's here to-day and gone yesterday, as the Scriptur' says. He ate a little mite of supper, but not much, and then off he puts. Says he's goin' to walk the fog out'n his head. I told him, s' I, 'You'll walk a plaguey sight more in than you do out, THIS night,' but he went just the same. He was dreadful kind of dumpy and blue this evenin'. Seemed to be sort of soggy in his mind. And why he never went to meetin' with his dad and why his dad never asked him TO go is more'n I can tell. Land of livin', how I do gabble! My grandmarm used to say my tongue was loose at both ends and hung in the middle, and I guess she wa'n't fur off the course. Good-by. Take care of yourself. You can put what's left of that mock mince pie on the top shelf in the butt'ry and you'd better heave a dish towel or sunthin' over it to keep the ants out. There's more ants in this house than there is dollars, a good sight. Betsy B., she's got a plan for keepin' of 'em out by puttin' sassers of brimstone round the shelves, but I told her, s' I, 'THEM ants don't care for no brimstone. They're used to it. Sometimes I b'lieve they're sent by the everlastin' father of brimstone,' and she—”

She had reached the gate by this time, and Grace shut off the flow of conversation by closing the door. Then she took a candle from the row on the dining-room mantel, lighted it, and went up to her own room. Standing before the old-fashioned bureau with its little oval mirror, she hastily arranged her hair. She did not wish to go to the prayer meeting at the chapel, but she felt that she must. The Come-Outer gatherings, with their noisy singing and shouting, had grown more and more repugnant to her.

And to-night, of all nights! How could she meet those people who had known her since she was a child, who boasted of her as one of their staunchest adherents, who believed in her and trusted her? How could she meet them and talk with them, knowing what she knew and realizing that they, too, would know it on the morrow? But her uncle would miss her and be worried about her if she did not come. She could not bear to trouble him now; she never loved him so dearly, was never so anxious to humor his every wish as on this, perhaps the last evening they would spend together. For, though she would not yet admit it, even to herself, her decision was made, had really been made the first time John Ellery asked her weeks before. Only the thought of what might happen to him if she consented had caused her to hesitate so long.

She blew out the candle and came out into the hall at the head of the stairs. She was about to descend when she heard voices. The door of the dining room opened and closed. She felt certain that Nat had returned and wondered who was with him. Then she heard her uncle's voice, speaking sharply and with unwonted sternness.

“I don't know what 'tis you want to see me about,” said Captain Eben. “You say it's important; well, it's got to be to keep me from my meetin'. I ought to be on the Lord's business this minute and nothin' worldly's goin' to keep me from servin' Him. So speak quick. What is it?”

The voice that answered was one that Grace recognized, though she had never before heard in it the note of agitation and undignified excitement. There were no ponderous pauses and “Hum—ha's” now.

“Don't be a fool, Hammond!” it said. “And don't stand there preaching. Lock that door! Get a lamp! Are you sure there's nobody but us in the house?”

Captain Elkanah Daniels! Captain Elkanah visiting a Come-Outer! and the leader of the Come-Outers!! Grace caught her breath. What in the world—She started to descend and then a thought flashed to her mind. She stopped short.

“I ain't the fool, Elkanah,” she heard her uncle retort sternly. “The fools are them who are deef to the call from on high. My foot was on the threshold of His house when you led me astray. It's never halted there afore. I warn you—”

“Hush! Shut up! Can't you forget that—that Come-Outer circus of yours for a minute?”

“Elkanah Daniels, I'll have no blasphemy here. Another word like that and—”

“WILL you be still and hear me? The Lord's business! I guess you'll think it's the Lord's business when you understand what I'm going to tell you! The Lord's business! The devil's business, you better say! Will you lock that door?”

“My church is waitin' for me and—”

“Let it wait. What's a parcel of yelling Come-Outers compared to the decency of this town? Stop! Shut up! Eben Hammond, I tell you that your precious church—yes and mine, the Regular church of Trumet—will go to rack and ruin if you and me don't pull together this night.”

“And I tell you, Elkanah Daniels, I'll have no blasphemy here. That little sanctuary up the road is founded on a rock and neither you nor any of your Phariseein' priest-worshipin' crew can shake it. The Almighty'll protect His own. As for the Reg'lar church, that's no concern of mine.”

“But I tell you 'tis your concern. Or if the church isn't, your own family is.”

“My—my family?”

“Yes, your own family. Huh! that makes you listen, don't it?”

There was an instant of silence. Grace, crouching on the stairs, noticed the change in her uncle's voice as he answered.

“My own family?” he repeated slowly. “My own—And the Reg'lar church—What do you mean? Has Nat—”

“No, he ain't. But that cussed girl of yours—”

“Stop!” Eben's shout rang through the house. The listener heard it, rose, and then sank slowly to her knees.

“Stop!” shouted Captain Hammond. “Elkanah Daniels, for your own sake now, be careful. If you dast to say a word, another word like that, I'll—”

“If I dast! The hussy! But there's no use talkin' to you. You're as crazy as a Bedlamite. Either that, or you're in the game with her. If you are, I warn you—”

“Stop! What game? What do you mean? Gracie! My Grace! What is it? For mercy sakes, Elkanah—”

“Humph! I wondered if I couldn't get some sense into you, finally. Lock that door!”

“I will! I will! But Elkanah—”

“Lock it! Give me the key!”

The click of the lock sounded sharply.

“Where's the lamp?” demanded Daniels. “And the matches? Don't stand there shaking.”

A smell of sulphur floated out into the hall. Then the sickly glow of the “fluid” lamp shone through the doorway.

“What ails you?” asked Elkanah. “Are you struck dumb? Now go and see if there's anybody else in the house.”

“But—but there ain't. I know there ain't. Hannah's gone and Gracie's at meetin' by this time.”

“She? Humph! Well, maybe she's at meeting and maybe she isn't. Maybe she's over in Peters's pines, hugging and kissing that man she's met there every Sunday for I don't know how long—Here! let go, you old fool! Let go, I tell you!”

A chair fell to the floor with a bang. There was the sound of hard breathing and rapid footsteps.

“Let go!” panted Daniels. “Are you crazy? Take your hands off me!”

“You liar!” snarled Captain Eben. “You low-lived liar! By the Almighty, Elkanah Daniels! I'll—You take that back or I'll choke the everlastin' soul out of you. I will—”

“Let go, you lunatic! You'll kill yourself. Listen! I'm not lying. It's the truth. She's met a man, I tell you. Been meeting him for months, I guess. There! now will you listen?”

The footsteps had ceased, but the heavy breathing continued.

“A man!” gasped Eben. “A man! Gracie! It's a—Who is he? What's his name?”

“His name's John Ellery, and he's minister of the Regular church in this town; that's who he is! Here! hold up! Good Lord! are you dying? Hold up!”

The girl on the stairs sprang to her feet. Her head was reeling and she could scarcely stand, but she blindly began the descent. She must go to her uncle. She must. But Captain Daniels's voice caused her to halt once more.

“There! there!” it said in a tone of relief. “That's better. Set still now. Be quiet, that's it. Shall I get some water?”

“No, no! let me be. Just let me be. I ain't what I used to be and this—I'm all right, I tell you. Grace! And—and—What was it you just said? I—I don't b'lieve I heard it right.”

“I said that daughter of yours, or niece, or whatever she is, this Grace Van Horne, has been meeting young Ellery, our minister, in Peters's grove. Been meeting him and walking with him, and kissing him, and—”

“It's a lie! It ain't so, Elkanah! Prove it or—It—it CAN'T be so, can it? Please—”

“It is so. She's met him in those pines every Sunday afternoon for a long time. She was seen there with him this afternoon.”

“Who—who saw her?”

“Never mind. The one that did'll never tell—unless it's necessary. They're fixing to be married, and—”

“MARRIED! She marry a Reg'lar minister! Oh—”

“Hush! Listen! They ain't married yet. We can stop 'em, you and I, if we get right to work. It isn't too late. Will you help?”

“Will I—I—Go on! tell me more.”

“We can stop 'em. I know it would be a good catch for her, the sneaking, designing—Well, never mind. But it can't be. It shan't be. You've got to tell her so, Hammond. We folks of the Regular church have pride in our society; we won't have it disgraced. And we have been proud of our minister, the young, rattle-headed fool! We'll save him if we can. If we can't”—the speaker's teeth grated—“then we'll send him to eternal smash or die trying.”

“But I can't believe it's true. It's a mistake; some other girl and not Gracie. Why, she don't even know him. She wouldn't—But she HAS been out every Sunday afternoon for weeks. If it SHOULD be!”

“It is. I tell you it is. Don't waste time rolling your eyes and talking stuff. We've got to work and you've got to work first. I don't know whether you're only making believe or not. I realize that 'twould be a good thing for your girl to marry a promising young chap like him, but—Hush! let me go on. I tell you, Hammond, it can't be. We won't let her. I won't let her. I'm a man of influence in this town, and outside of it, too. I'm head of the parish committee and a member of the National Regular Society. I can't reach your precious ward, maybe, but I can reach the fellow she's after, and if he marries her, I'll drive 'em both to the poorhouse.

“Here's where you come in, Hammond. It may be she does really care for him. Or maybe she's after position and money. Well, you talk to her. You tell her that if she keeps on going with him, if she doesn't break off this damnable business now, tomorrow, I'll ruin John Ellery as sure as I'm a living man. He'll be ruined in Trumet, anyhow. He'll be thrown out by the parish committee. I'm not sure that his church people won't tar and feather him. Marrying a low-down Come-Outer hussy! As if there wa'n't decent girls of good families he might have had! But losing this church won't be the only thing that'll happen to him. The committee'll see that he doesn't get another one. I'll use my influence and have him thrown out of the Regular ministry. Think I can't? What sort of yarns do you suppose will be told about him and her, meeting the way they did? Won't the county papers print some fine tales? Won't the Boston ones enjoy such a scandal? I tell you, Eben Hammond, that young chap's name will be dragged so deep in the mud it'll never get clean again.”

He stopped for breath. His companion was silent. After a moment, he continued:

“You tell her that, Hammond,” he went on. “If she really cares for him, it'll be enough. She won't let him ruin his life. And I'll keep quiet till I hear from you. If she's sensible and really decent, then she can give him his clearance papers without his knowing why she did it and everything will be a secret and kept so. Nobody else'll ever know. If she won't do that, then you tell me and I'll have a session with HIM. If THAT'S no good, then out he goes and she with him; and it's ruination for both of 'em, reputations and all. Why am I doing this? I'll tell you. I like him. He isn't orthodox enough to suit me, but I have liked him mighty well. And Annab—Humph! that's neither here nor there. What I'm fighting for is the Trumet Regular church. That's MY church and I'll have no dirty scandal with Come-Outers dragging it down. Now you understand. Will you tell her what I've said?”

The chair creaked. Evidently, Captain Eben was rising slowly to his feet.

“Well?” repeated Elkanah.

“Elkanah Daniels,” said Eben slowly, his voice shaking from nervous exhaustion and weakness, but with a fine ring of determination in every word, “Elkanah Daniels, you listen to me. I've heard you through. If your yarn is true, then my heart is broke, and I wish I might have died afore I heard it. But I didn't die and I have heard it. Now listen to me. I love that girl of mine better'n the whole wide world and yet I'd ruther see her dead afore me than married to a Reg'lar minister. Disgrace to HIM! Disgrace to your miser'ble church! What about the disgrace to MINE? And the disgrace to HER? Ruin to your minister! Ruin to my girl here and hereafter is what I'm thinkin' of; that and my people who worship God with me. I'll talk to Grace. I'll talk to her. But not of what'll happen to him or you—or any of your cantin', lip-servin' crew. I'll tell her to choose between him and me. And if she chooses him, I'll send her out of that door. I'll do my duty and read her out of my congregation. And I'll know she's gone to everlastin' hell, and that's worse'n the poorhouse. That's all to-night, Elkanah. Now you better go.”

“Humph! Well, I declare! you ARE a bigoted—”

“Stop it! I've kept my hands off you so fur, because I'm the Lord's servant. But I'm fightin' hard to keep down my old salt-water temper. You go! There's the door.”

“All right, all right! I don't care what you say, so long as it's said so as to stop her from getting him—and said soon.”

“It'll be said to-night. Now go! My people are waitin' at the chapel.”

“You're not going to that prayer meeting after THIS?”

“Where else should I go? 'Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden.' And—and”—his voice broke—“He knows that I AM heavy laden. Lord! Lord! do help me, for this is more'n I can bear alone.”

The lock turned; the door opened and closed. Grace, clinging to the balusters, heard Captain Hammond cross the room, slowly and feebly. She heard him enter the sitting room. Then she heard nothing more, not another sound, though the minutes dragged on and on, endlessly, eternally, and each with a message, a sentence repeated over and over again in her brain. “If she really cares for him, she won't let him ruin his life.”

By and by, pale, but more composed, and with her mind made up, she came down into the hall. Drawing a long breath, she turned into the sitting room to face her uncle. By the light shining through the dining-room door she saw him on his knees by the haircloth sofa. She spoke his name. He did not answer nor look up. Alarmed, she touched him on the shoulder. At her touch his arm slid from the couch and he fell gently over upon his side on the carpet.