Half past eight. In the vestry of the Regular church John Ellery was conducting his prayer meeting. The attendance was as large as usual. Three seats, however, were vacant, and along the settees people were wondering where Captain Elkanah Daniels and his daughter might be. They had not missed a service for many a day. And where was Keziah Coffin?

At the Come-Outer chapel the testifying and singing were in full blast. But Ezekiel Bassett was leading, for Captain Eben Hammond had not made his appearance. Neither had Grace Van Horne, for that matter, but Captain Eben's absence was the most astonishing.

“Somethin's the matter,” whispered Josiah Badger to his right-hand neighbor. “Somethin's wrong d-d-d-down to the tavern, sartin' sure. I'm goin' down there just soon's meetin's over and f-f-f-find out. Eben wouldn't no more miss leadin' his meetin' from choice than I'd go without a meal's v-v-vi-vittles. Somethin's happened and I'm goin' to know what 'tis. You'll go along with me, won't ye, Lot?”

The answer was an affirmative. In fact, almost every worshiper in that chapel had determined to visit the Hammond tavern as soon as the service was at an end.

In the Regular parsonage Keziah sat alone by the sitting-room table. Prayer meeting and supper she had forgotten entirely. The minister had not come home for his evening meal, and food was furthest from the housekeeper's thoughts. What should she do? What ought she to do? How could she avert the disaster so certain to overwhelm those two young people the moment their secret became known?

It was in vain that she tried to encourage herself with the hope that Kyan had exaggerated—that the meetings in the grove had not been as frequent as he said they were, or that they had been merely casual. She knew better. She had seen the pair together and the look in John Ellery's eyes. No, the mischief was done, they loved each other; or, at least, he loved her. There was the great trouble.

Keziah, in spite of her worldly common sense, was an idealist at heart. Love matches she believed in thoroughly. If the man had not been a Regular minister, or if he had been a minister in any other town than narrow, gossiping, squabbling Trumet, where families were divided on “religious” grounds, neighbors did not speak because their creeds were different, and even after death were buried in cemeteries three miles apart; if the girl had been other than the ward of bigoted old Eben Hammond—then, though they were poor as poverty itself, Keziah would have joined their hands and rejoiced. Even as it was, she was strongly tempted to do it. Her sense of right and her every inclination urged her toward that course. “Face the world together and fight it out,” that was the advice she would like to give them. But no, the battle was too uneven. The odds were too great. They must not think of marriage, for the present, and they must cease to meet. Perhaps some day—she tried to comfort herself with the thought—perhaps some day, years afterwards and under different circumstances, they might.

—With Ellery she felt certain she could accomplish nothing by argument or persuasion. She knew him well enough by this time to realize that, if his mind was made up, all Trumet and all creation could not change it. He would keep on his course, and, if wrecked, would go down with colors set and helm lashed. But Grace, perhaps she did not fully realize the situation. She might be made to see, to listen to reason. And, perhaps, it was possible—perhaps, on her part, matters were not as serious. The minister had not acted like a triumphant lover, assured of success; he had seemed, now that she thought of it, more like a pleader, a supplicant. Perhaps, if she could see Grace and talk plainly with the girl, it might not be too late. She determined to try that very night.

She rose and again donned her bonnet and shawl. She was about to blow out the lamp when she heard rapid footsteps, the sound of some one running along the sidewalk in front of the house. As she listened, the footsteps sounded on the path. Whoever the runner was he was coming to the parsonage. She stepped to the door and opened it.

The runner was a boy, Maria Higgins's boy Isaac, whose widowed mother lived down by the shore. He did the chores at the Hammond tavern. His freckled face was dripping with perspiration and he puffed and blew like a stranded whale.

“What's the matter, Ike?” demanded Keziah. “What is it?”

“Have ye—have ye,” panted Ike, “have ye seen the doctor anywheres, Mis Coffin?”

“Who? Dr. Parker? Have I seen—what in the world are you comin' HERE after the doctor for?”

“'Cause—'cause I didn't know where else to come. I been to his house and he ain't to home. Nobody ain't to home. His wife, Mis Parker, she's gone up to Boston yes'day on the coach, and—and it's all dark and the house door's open and the shay's gone, so—”

“Who's sick? Who wants him?”

“And—and—all the rest of the houses round here was shut up 'cause everybody's to meetin'. I peeked in at the meetin' house and he ain't there, and I see your light and—”

“Who's sick? Tell me that, won't you?”

“Cap'n Eben. He's awful sick. I cal'late he's goin' to die, and Gracie, she—”

“Cap'n Eben? Eben Hammond! Dyin'? What are you talkin' about?”

“Huh! huh!” puffed the messenger impatiently. “Didn't I tell ye? Cap'n Eben's adyin'. I seen him. All white and still and—and awful. And Gracie, she's all alone and—”

“Alone? Where's Nat?”

“She don't know. He ain't to home. But I got to find Dr. Parker.”

“Hold on! Stop! I'll tell you where the doctor is most likely. Up to Mrs. Prince's. She's been poorly and he's prob'ly been called there. Run! run fast as ever you can and get him and I'll go to Grace this minute. The poor thing! Have you told anybody else?”

“No, no! ain't seen nobody but you to tell. They was prayin' over to meetin', and the fellers that waits outside to keep comp'ny with the girls ain't got there yet. And I never met nobody. And 'twas so blasted dark I fell down four times and tore my best pants and—”

“S-sh-sh! Listen to me! Don't tell anybody. Not a soul but the doctor. Half this town'll be runnin' to find out if you do, and that poor girl must be distracted already. I'll go to her. You get Dr. Parker and tell him to hurry.”

“I'll tell him; don't you fret.”

He was gone, running harder than ever. A moment later Keziah followed him, running also.

It was a misty, black night, and Trumet sidewalks were uneven and hard to navigate. But she stumbled on, up the main road to the Corners, down the “Turn-off,” past the chapel of the Come-Outers, from the open window of which sounded the drone of a high, nasal voice. Josiah Badger was “testifying,” and Keziah caught a fragment of the testimony as she hurried by.

“I says to 'em, says I, I says to 'em, 'I don't care about your smart mum-mum-minister and what fine sermons he preaches. Let him BE smart,' I says. Says I, 'Smartness won't g-g-g-git ye into heaven.' (“Amen!”) 'No, sirree! it takes more'n that. I've seen smart folks afore and they got c-c-cuk-catched up with sooner or later. Pride goes ahead of a tumble, I've heard tell, and—”

This was all that Keziah heard of Mr. Badger's testimony, for, as she ran on, a rattle of wheels and the thud of hoofs came from behind her. Then a rocking chaise, drawn by a galloping horse, shot by. Dr. Parker's carriage, she was sure. The Higgins boy must have met the doctor and delivered his message.

The horse and chaise were standing by the front gate of the tavern as she pantingly drew near it. The side door of the house was ajar and she opened it softly and entered. The dining room was empty. There was a light on the sitting-room table and low voices came from the little bedroom adjoining. Then, from the bedroom, emerged Dr. Parker and Grace Van Horne. The girl was white and there were dark circles under her eyes. The doctor was very grave.

Keziah stepped forward and held out both hands. Grace looked, recognized her, and with a cry ran toward her. Keziah took her in her arms and soothed her as if she were a child.

“There! there! deary,” she said, stroking her hair. “There! there! deary, don't take it so hard. Poor thing! you're worn out. If I'd only known sooner.”

“O Aunt Keziah!” sobbed the girl. “I'm so glad you've come. It was so good of you.”

“Good! Land of mercy! If I hadn't come, I'd have been worse than the beasts that perish. Don't cry, don't. How is he now? Some better?”

She looked at the doctor as she asked it. He shook his head emphatically.

“Well, well, dear,” went on Mrs. Coffin hurriedly. “He will be pretty soon, we'll hope. You mustn't give up the ship, you know. Now you go and lay down somewheres and I'll get my things off and see what there is to do. Some good strong tea might be good for all hands, I guess likely. Where's Hannah Poundberry?”

“She's gone to her cousin's to stay all night. I suppose I ought to send for her, but I—”

“No, no, you hadn't. Might's well send for a poll parrot, the critter would be just as much good and talk less. I'll look out for things, me and the doctor. Where's—where's Nat?”

“He came in just after I sent the boy for the doctor. He's in there with—with him,” indicating the bedroom. “Poor Nat!”

Keziah looked longingly toward the door.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Poor fellow, it's an awful shock to him. He and his father are—But there! you lay down on that lounge.”

“I can't lie down. I can't do anything but think. Oh, what a dreadful day this has been! And I thought it was going to be such a happy one!”

“Yes, yes, deary, I know.”

Grace raised her head.

“You know?” she repeated, looking up into the housekeeper's face.

“I mean I know it's been a dreadful day,” explained Keziah quickly. “Yes, indeed it has,” with a sigh. “But there! our moanin' over it don't cheer it up any. Will you lay down? No? Well, then, SET down, there's a good girl.”

Grace, protesting that she couldn't sit down, she couldn't leave uncle, and there were so many things to do, was at last persuaded by Keziah and the doctor to rest for a few moments in the big rocker. Then Mrs. Coffin went into the kitchen to prepare the tea. As she went, she beckoned to Dr. Parker, who joined her a moment later.

“Well, doctor?” she asked anxiously.

The stout, gray-haired old physician—he had practiced in Trumet for nearly thirty years—shook his head.

“Not a single chance,” he whispered. “He may possibly live till morning, but I doubt if he lasts an hour. It's his heart. I've expected it at any time. Ever since he had that shock, I've been at him to take things easy; but you might as well talk to a graven image. That Come-Outer foolishness is what really killed him, though just what brought on this attack I can't make out. Grace says she found him lying on the floor by the sofa. He was unconscious then. I'm rather worried about her. She was very near to fainting when I got here.”

“No wonder. All alone in this ark of a house and nobody to help or to send. Lucky she found that Ike Higgins. Say, I wonder if the young one's around here now? If he is, he must stand at the gate and scare off Come-Outers. The whole chapel, mates, crew, and cabin boy, 'll be down here soon's meetin's over to see what kept Eben. And they mustn't get in.”

“I should say not. I'll hunt up Ike. If a Come-Outer gets into this house to-night I'll eat him, that's all.”

“Some of 'em would give you dyspepsy, I guess. Yes, Grace, I'll be there in a jiffy.”

The doctor left the house to find young Higgins and post him at the gate. The boy, who had been listening under the window, was proud of his new responsibility.

“I'll fix 'em, doctor,” he declared. “I only hope old Zeke Bassett comes. He lammed me with a horsewhip t'other day, 'cause I was ridin' behind his ox cart. If he tried to git by me, I'll bounce a rock off'n his Sunday hat.”

“Doctor,” whispered Keziah from the kitchen window. “Doctor, come quick. Nat wants you.”

Captain Nat was standing at the door of the bedroom. His face was drawn and he had seemingly grown years older since noon.

“He's come to himself, doc,” he whispered. “He don't remember how it happened or anything. And he wants us all. Why! why, Keziah! are you here?”

“Yes, Nat. I've been here a little while.”

He looked at her steadily and his eyes brightened just a trifle.

“Did you come to see me?” he asked. “Was it about what I said this—”

“No, no, Nat; no. I heard the news and that Grace was alone; so I come right down.”

He nodded wearily.

“You can come in, too,” he said. “I know dad likes you and I guess—Wait a minute; I'll ask him.” He stepped back into the bedroom. “Yes,” he nodded, returning, “you come, too. He wants you.”

The little room, Captain Eben's own, was more like a skipper's cabin than a chamber on land. A narrow, single bed, a plain washstand, a battered, painted bureau and a single chair—these made up the list of furniture. Two pictures, both of schooners under full sail, hung on the walls. Beside them hung a ship's barometer, a sextant, and a clock that struck the “bells,” instead of the hours as the landsman understands them. In the corner stood the captain's big boots and his oilskins hung above them. His Sunday cane was there also. And on the bureau was a worn, heavy Bible.

Dr. Parker brushed by the others and bent over the bed.

“Well, cap'n,” he said cheerily, “how's she headed? How are you feeling now?”

The old face on the pillow smiled feebly.

“She's headed for home, I guess, doc,” said Captain Eben. “Bound for home, and the harbor light broad abeam, I cal'late.”

“Oh, no! you'll make a good many voyages yet.”

“Not in this hulk, I won't, doctor. I hope I'll have a new command pretty soon. I'm trustin' in my owners and I guess they'll do the fair thing by me. Halloo, Gracie, girl! Well, your old uncle's on his beam ends, ain't he?”

Grace glanced fearfully at his face. When he spoke her name she shrank back, as if she feared what he might say. But he only smiled as, with the tears streaming down her face, she bent over and kissed him.

“There! there!” he protested. “You mustn't cry. What are you cryin' about me for? We know, you and me, who's been lookin' out for us and keepin' us on the course all these years. We ain't got anything to cry for. You just keep on bein' a 'good girl, Gracie, and goin' to the right church and—I s'pose Ezekiel'll lead in meetin' now,” he added. “I do wish he was a stronger man.”

The doctor, whose fingers had been upon the old man's wrist, looked up at Nat significantly.

“There, dad,” said the latter, “don't you worry about Zeke Bassett, nor anything else. You just lay in dry dock and let Parker here overhaul your runnin' riggin' and get you fit for sea. That's what you've got to do.”

“I'm fit and ready for the sea I'm goin' to sail,” was the answer. His eyes wandered from his son to Mrs. Coffin. For an instant he seemed puzzled. Then he said:

“'Evenin', Keziah. I don't know why you're here, but—”

“I heard that Grace was alone and that you was sick, Eben. So I come right down, to help if I could.”

“Thank ye. You're a good-hearted woman, Keziah, even though you ain't seen the true light yet. And you're housekeeper for that hired priest—a—a—” He paused, and a troubled look came over his face.

“What is it, dad?” asked Nat.

“I—I—Where's Gracie? She's here, ain't she?”

“Yes, uncle, I'm here. Here I am,” said the girl. His fingers groped for her hand and seized it.

“Yes, yes, you're here,” murmured Captain Eben. “I—I—for a minute or so, I—I had an awful dream about you, Gracie. I dreamed—Never mind. Doc, answer me this now, true and honest, man to man: Can you keep me here for just a little spell longer? Can you? Try! Ten minutes, say. Can you?”

“Of course I can. Cap'n Hammond, what are you—”

“I know. That's all right. But I ain't a young one to be petted and lied to. I'm a man. I've sailed ships. I've been on blue water. I'm goin' to make port pretty soon, and I know it, but I want to get my decks clear fust, if I can. Gracie, stand still. Nat, run alongside where I can see you plainer. Keziah, you and the doctor stay where you be. I want you to witness this.”

“Cap'n,” protested Dr. Parker, “if I were you I wouldn't—”

“Belay! Silence there, for'ard! Nat, you're my boy, ain't you? You set some store by the old man, hey?”

“I—I guess I do, dad.”

“Yes, I guess you do, too. You've been a pretty good boy; stubborn and pig-headed sometimes, but, take you by and large, pretty good. And Gracie, you've been a mighty good girl. Never done nothin' I wouldn't like, nothin' mean nor underhand nor—”

“Hush, uncle! Hush! Please hush!”

“Well, you ain't; so why should I hush? In this—this dream I had, seems 'sif you—seems as if a man come to me and said that you was—It WAS a dream, wa'n't it?”

He tried to rise. Nat and the doctor started forward. Grace shrank back.

“Of course it was, cap'n,” said the doctor briskly. “Now you mustn't fret yourself in this way. Just lie still and—”

“Belay, I tell you. Yes, I guess 'twas a dream. It had to be, but 'twas so sort of real that I—How long have I been this way?”

“Oh, a little while! Now just—”

“Hush! Don't pull your hand away, Gracie. Nat, give me yours. That's it. Now I put them two hands together. See, doctor? See, Keziah?”

“He's wandering. We must stop this,” muttered Parker. Mrs. Coffin, who began to comprehend what was coming, looked fearfully at Nat and the girl.

“No, I ain't wanderin', neither,” declared the old Come-Outer fretfully. “I'm sane as ever I was and if you try to stop me I'll—Gracie, your Uncle Eben's v'yage is 'most over. He's almost to his moorin's and they're waitin' for him on the pier. I—I won't be long now. Just a little while, Lord! Give me just a little while to get my house in order. Gracie, I don't want to go till I know you'll be looked out for. I've spoke to Nat about this, but I ain't said much to you. Seems if I hadn't, anyhow; I ain't real sartin; my head's all full of bells ringin' and—and things.”

“Don't, uncle, don't!” pleaded Grace. “Don't worry about me. Think of yourself, please.”

“S-sh-sh! Don't put me off. Just listen. I want you to marry my boy, after I'm gone. I want you to say you will—say it now, so's I can hear it. Will you, Gracie?”

Grace would have withdrawn her hand, but he would not let her. He clung to it and to that of his son with all his failing strength.

“Will you, Gracie?” he begged. “It's the last thing I'm goin' to ask of you. I've tried to be sort of good to you, in my way, and—”

“Don't, don't!” she sobbed. “Let me think a minute, uncle, dear. Oh, do let me think!”

“I ain't got time, Gracie. You'll have to say it now, or else—All right, then, think; but think quick.”

Grace was thinking. “If she really cares for him, she won't let him ruin his life.” That was what Captain Elkanah had said. And here was a way to save him from ruin.

“Won't you say it for me, Gracie?” pleaded Captain Eben. She hesitated no longer.

“Yes, uncle,” she answered through tears, “if Nat wants me he can have me.”

Keziah clasped her hands. Captain Eben's face lit up with a great joy.

“Thank the Almighty!” he exclaimed. “Lord, I do thank you. Nat, boy, you're consider'ble older than she is and you'll have to plan for her. You be a good husband to her all her days, won't ye? Why, what are you waitin' for? Why don't you answer me?”

Nat groaned aloud.

“A minute, dad,” he stammered. “Just give me a minute, for Heaven sakes! Keziah—”

“Keziah!” repeated Eben. “Keziah? What are you talkin' to HER for? She knows there couldn't be no better match in the world. You do know it, don't ye, Keziah?”

“Yes,” said Keziah slowly. “I guess—I guess you're right, Eben.”

“Keziah Coffin,” cried Nat Hammond, “do you tell me to marry Grace?”

“Yes, Nat, I—I think your father's right.”

“Then—then—what difference does—All right, dad. Just as Grace says.”

“Thank God!” cried Captain Eben. “Doctor, you and Mrs. Coffin are witnesses to this. There! now my decks are clear and I'd better get ready to land. Gracie, girl, the Good Book's over there on the bureau. Read me a chapter, won't you?”

An hour later Keziah sat alone in the dining room. She had stolen away when the reading began. Dr. Parker, walking very softly, came to her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“He's gone,” he said simply.