Mr. Caleb Hammond rose that Sunday morning with a partially developed attack of indigestion and a thoroughly developed “grouch.” The indigestion was due to an injudicious partaking of light refreshment—sandwiches, ice cream and sarsaparilla “tonic”—at the club the previous evening. Simeon Baker had paid for the refreshment, ordering the supplies sent in from Mr. Chris Badger's store. Simeon had received an unexpected high price for cranberries shipped to New York, and was in consequence “flush” and reckless. He appeared at the club at nine-thirty, after most of its married members had departed for their homes and only a few of the younger set and one or two bachelors, like Mr. Hammond, remained, and announced that he was going to “blow the crowd.” The crowd was quite willing to be blown and said so.

Mr. Hammond ate three sandwiches and two plates of ice cream, also he smoked two cigars. He did not really feel the need of the second cream or the second cigar, but, as they were furnished without cost to him, he took them as a matter of principle. Hence the indigestion.

The “grouch” was due partially to the unwonted dissipation and its consequences and partly to the fact that his winter “flannels” had not been returned by Mrs. Melinda Pease, to whom they had been consigned for mending and overhauling.

It was the tenth of November and for a period of twenty-four years, ever since his recovery from a severe attack of rheumatic fever, Caleb had made it a point to lay aside his summer underwear on the morning of November tenth and don a heavy suit. Weather, cold or warm, was not supposed to have any bearing on this change. The ninth might be as frigid as a Greenland twilight and the tenth as balmy as a Florida noon—no matter; on the ninth Mr. Hammond wore light underwear and shivered; on the tenth he wore his “flannels” and perspired. It was another of his principles, and Caleb had a deserved reputation for adhering to principle and being “sot” in his ways.

So, when, on this particular tenth of November, this Sabbath morning, he rose, conscious of the sandwiches and “tonic,” and found no suit of flannels ready for him to don, his grouch began to develop. He opened his chamber door a crack and shouted through the crack.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he called. “Hi—i, Mrs. Barnes!”

Thankful, still busy in the kitchen, where she had been joined by Imogene, sent the latter to find out what was the matter. Imogene returned, grinning.

“He wants his flannels,” she announced. “Wants to know where them winter flannels Mrs. Pease sent home yesterday are. Why, ain't they in his room, he says.”

Thankful sniffed. Her experience with Miss Timpson, and the worry caused by the latter's leaving, had had their effect upon her patience.

“Mercy sakes!” she exclaimed. “Is that all? I thought the house was afire. I don't know where his flannels are. Why should I? Where'd Melindy put 'em when she brought 'em here?”

Imogene chuckled. “I don't think she brought 'em at all,” she replied. “She wa'n't here yesterday. She—why, yes, seems to me Kenelm said he heard she was sick abed with a cold.”

Thankful nodded. “So she is,” she said. “Probably the poor thing ain't had time to finish mendin' 'em. It's a good deal of a job, I guess. She told me once that that Hammond man wore his inside clothes till they wa'n't anything BUT mendin', just hung together with patches, as you might say. His suits and overcoats are all right enough 'most always, but he can't seem to bear to spend money for anything underneath. Perhaps he figgers that patches are good as anything else, long's they don't show. Imogene, go tell him Melindy didn't fetch 'em.”

Imogene went and returned with her grin broader than ever.

“He says she did bring 'em,” she announced. “Says she always brings him his things on the ninth. He's pretty peppery this mornin', seems to me. Says he don't cal'late to stand there and freeze much longer.”

“Freeze! Why, it's the warmest day we've had for a fortni't. The sun's come out and it's cleared up fine, like Indian summer. Oh, DO be still!” as another shout for “Mrs. Barnes” came from above. “Here, never mind, Imogene; I'll tell him.”

She went into the front hall and called up the stairs.

“Your things ain't here, Mr. Hammond,” she said. “Melindy didn't bring 'em. She's laid up with a cold and probably couldn't get 'em ready.”

“Course she's got 'em ready! She always has 'em ready. She knows I want 'em.”

“Maybe so, but she ain't always sick, 'tain't likely. They ain't here, anyway. You won't need 'em today.”

“Need 'em? Course I need 'em. It's colder than Christmas.”

“No, it isn't. It's almost as warm as September. Put on two suits of your others, if you're so cold. And come down to breakfast as soon as you can. We've all had ours.”

When Mr. Hammond did come down to breakfast his manner was that of a martyr. The breakfast itself, baked beans and fishballs, did not appeal to him, and he ate little. He grumbled as he drank his coffee.

“Healthy note, this is!” he muttered. “Got to set around and freeze to death just 'cause that lazy critter ain't finished her job. I pay her for it, don't I?”

Thankful sniffed. “I suppose you do,” she said, adding under her breath, “though how much you pay is another thing.”

“Is this all the breakfast you've got?” queried Caleb.

“Why, yes; it's what we always have Sunday mornin's. Isn't it what you expected?”

“Oh, I expected it, all right. Take it away; I don't want no more. Consarn it! I wish sometimes I had a home of my own.”

“Well, why don't you have one? I should think you would. You can afford it.”

Mr. Hammond did not reply. He folded his napkin, seized his hat and coat and went out. When he crossed the threshold he shivered, as a matter of principle.

He stalked gloomily along the path by the edge of the bluff. Captain Obed Bangs came up the path and they met.

“Hello, Caleb!” hailed the captain. “Fine weather at last, eh? Almost like August. Injun summer at last, I cal'late. What you got your coat collar turned up for? Afraid of getting your neck sunburned?”

Mr. Hammond grunted and hurried on. Captain Obed had chosen a poor topic if he desired a lengthy conversation.

Mrs. Pease lived at the farther end of the village and when Caleb reached there he was met by the lady's niece, Emma Snow.

“Aunt Melindy's real poorly,” said Emma. “She's been so for 'most three days. I'm stayin' here with her till she gets better. No, she ain't had time to do your mendin' yet. Anyhow it's so nice and warm you don't need the things, that's a comfort.”

It may have been a comfort to her, but it was not to Caleb. He growled a reply and turned on his heel. The churchgoers along the main road received scanty acknowledgment of their greetings.

“Ain't you comin' to meetin'?” asked Abbie Larkin.

“Naw,” snarled Caleb, “I ain't.”

“Why not? And it's such a lovely day, too.”

“Ugh!”

“Why ain't you comin' to meetin', Mr. Hammond?”

“'Cause I don't feel like it, that's why.”

“I want to know! Well, you DON'T seem to be in a pious frame of mind, that's a fact. Better come; you may not feel like church, but I should say you needed it, if ever anybody did.”

Caleb did not deign a reply. He stalked across the road and took the path to the shore.

As he came opposite the Parker cottage he saw Hannah Parker at the window. He nodded and his nod was returned. Hannah's experience was as gloomy as his own. She did not look happy and somehow the idea that she was not happy pleased him; Abbie Larkin had been altogether too happy; it grated on him. He was miserable and he wanted company of his own kind. He stopped, hesitated, and then turned in at the Parker gate.

Hannah opened the door.

“Good mornin', Caleb,” she said. “Come in, won't you? It looks sort of chilly outdoor.”

This WAS a kindred spirit. Mr. Hammond entered the Parker sitting-room. Hannah motioned toward a chair and he sat down.

“Mornin', Hannah,” said Caleb. “'Tis chilly. It'll be a mercy if we don't catch our deaths, dressed the way some of us be. How's things with you?”

Miss Parker shook her head. “Oh, I don't know, Caleb,” she answered. “They ain't all they might be, I'm afraid.”

“What's the matter? Ain't you feelin' up to the mark?”

“Oh, yes—yes; I'm feeling well enough in body. I ain't sick, if that's what you mean. I'm kind of blue and—and lonesome, that's all. I try to bear up under my burdens, but I get compressed in spirit sometimes, I can't help it. Ah, hum a day!”

She sighed and Mr. Hammond sighed also.

“You ain't the only one,” he said. “I'm bluer'n a whetstone myself, this mornin'.”

“What's the trouble?”

“Trouble? Trouble enough! Somethin' happened this mornin' that riled me all up. It—” he paused, remembering that the cause of the “rilin'” was somewhat personal, not to say delicate. “Well—well, never mind what it was,” he added. “'Twas mighty aggravatin', that's all I've got to say.”

Hannah sighed again. “Ah, hum!” she observed. “There's aggravations enough in this life. And they generally come on account of somebody else, too. There's times when I wish I didn't have any flesh and blood.”

“Hey? Good land! No flesh and blood! What do you want—bones?”

“Oh, I don't mean that. I wish I didn't have any—any relations of my own flesh and blood.”

“Humph! I don't know's you'd be any better off. I ain't got nobody and I ain't what you might call cheerful. I know what's the matter with you, though. That Kenelm's been frettin' you again, I suppose.”

He had guessed it. Kenelm that morning had suddenly announced that he was to have a day off. He was cal'latin' to borrow Mrs. Barnes' horse and buggy and go for a ride. His sister promptly declared that would be lovely; she was just wishing for a ride. Whereupon Kenelm had hemmed and hawed and, at last, admitted that his company for the drive was already provided.

“Oh!” sneered Hannah. “I see. You're goin' to take that precious inmate of yours along. And I've got to set here alone at home. Well, I should think you'd be ASHAMED.”

“What for? Ain't nothin' in takin' a lady you're keepin' company with out drivin', is there? I don't see no shame in that.”

“No, I presume likely YOU don't. You're way past shame, both of you. And when I think of all I've done for you. Slaved and cooked your meals—”

“Well, you're cookin' 'em yet, ain't you? I ain't asked you to stop.”

“I will stop, though. I will.”

“All right, then; heave ahead and stop. I cal'late my wife'll be willin' to cook for me, if it's needful.”

“Your wife! She ain't your wife yet. And she shan't be. This ridiculous engaged business of yours is—is—”

“Well, if you don't like the engagin', why don't you stop it?”

“Why don't YOU stop it, you mean. You would if you had the feelin's of a man.”

“Humph! And let some everlastin' lawyer sue me out of my last cent for damages. All right, I'll stop it if you say so. There's plenty of room in the poorhouse, they tell me. How'd you like to give us this place and move to the poorhouse, Hannah?”

“But—but, O Kenelm, I can't think of your gettin' married! I can't think of it!”

“Don't think of it. I ain't thinkin' of it no more'n I can help. Why ain't you satisfied with things as they be? Everything's goin' on all right enough now, ain't it? You and me are livin' together same as we have for ever so long. You're here and I—well, I—”

He did not finish the sentence, but his sister read his thought. She knew perfectly well that her brother was finding a measure of enjoyment in the situation, so far as his dealings with her were concerned. He was more independent than he had been since she took him in charge. But she realized, too, her own impotence. She could not drive him too hard or he might be driven into marrying Imogene. And THAT Hannah was determined should be deferred as long as possible.

So she said no more concerning the “ride” and merely showed her feelings by moping in the corner and wiping her eyes with her handkerchief whenever he looked in her direction. After he had gone she spent the half-hour previous to Mr. Hammond's arrival in alternate fits of rage and despair.

“So Kenelm's been actin' unlikely, has he?” queried Caleb. “Well, if he was my brother he'd soon come to time quick, or be put to bed in a hospital. That's what would happen to HIM.”

Miss Parker looked as if the hospital picture was more appealing than dreadful.

“I wish he was your brother,” she said. “Or I wish I was independent and had a house of my own.”

“Huh! Gosh! So do I wish I had one. I've been wishin' it all the mornin'. If I had a home of my own I'd have what I wanted to eat—yes, and wear. And I'd have 'em when I wanted 'em, too.”

“Don't they give you good things to eat over at Mrs. Barnes'?”

“Oh, they're good enough maybe, if they're what you want. But boardin's boardin'; 'tain't like your own home.”

“Caleb, it's a wonder to me you don't rent a little house and live in it. You've got money enough; least so everybody says.”

“Humph! What everybody says is 'most generally lies. What would be the sense of my hirin' a house? I'd have to have a housekeeper and a good one costs like thunder. A feller's wife has to get along on what he gives her, but a housekeeper—”

He stopped short, seemingly struck by a new and amazing idea. Miss Parker rambled on about the old days when “dear papa” was alive; how happy she was then, and so on, with occasional recourse to the handkerchief. Suddenly Caleb slapped his knee.

“It's all right,” he said. “It's fine—and it's commonsense, too. Hannah, what's the matter with you and me gettin' married?”

Hannah stared at him.

“Married!” she repeated. “Me get married! Who to, for the land sakes? Are you out of your head?”

“Not a mite. What's the matter with you marryin' me?”

“My soul! Is this a funny-paper joke, or are you—”

“'Tain't a joke; I mean it. Is there any reason why we shouldn't marry and settle down together, you and me? I don't see none. You could keep house for me then, and 'twouldn't cost—that is, you could look out for me, and I—well, I suppose likely I could look out for you, too. Why not?”

“Why, how you talk, Caleb Hammond!”

“No, I don't talk neither. I mean it. You was wishin' for a home of your own; so was I. Let's have one together.”

“Well, I swan! Get married at our—at our age! I never did hear such talk! We'd be a nice young bride and groom, wouldn't we? I guess East Wellmouth folks would have somethin' to laugh at then.”

“Let 'em laugh. Laughin' don't cost nothin', and, if it does, we won't have to pay for it. See here, Hannah, this ain't any foolish front-gate courtin', this ain't. It's just common-sense business. Let's do it. I will if you will.”

Miss Parker shook her head. The prospect of being Mrs. Caleb Hammond was not too alluring. Caleb's reputation as a husband was not, while his wife lived, that of a “liberal provider.” And yet this was Hannah's first proposal, and it had come years after she had given up hoping for one. So she prolonged the delicious moment as long as possible.

“I suppose you're thinkin' about that brother of yours,” suggested Mr. Hammond. “Well, he'll be all right. 'Cordin' to what I've heard, and seen myself, he's hangin' around that hired help girl at the High Cliff pretty reg'lar these days. Maybe he'll marry her and you'll be left without anybody. If he don't marry her he can come to live along of us—maybe. If he does he'll mind his p's and q's, I tell you that. He'll find out who's boss.”

This speech had an effect. For the first time Hannah's determination wavered. Kenelm was, although Caleb did not know it, actually engaged to marry Imogene. His sister was even then writhing under the humiliation. And here was an opportunity to get even, not only with Kenelm, but with the “inmate.” If she, Hannah, were to marry and leave the pair instead of being herself left! Oh, the glory of it—the triumphant glory of it! How she could crush her brother! How she could gloat over and sneer at Imogene! The things she might say—she, the wife of a rich man! Oh, wonderful!

“Well, come on, Hannah, come on,” urged the impatient Caleb. “What do you say?”

But Miss Parker still shook her head. “It ain't any use, Caleb,” she declared. “Even if—if I wanted to, how could I tell Kenelm? He'd raise an awful fuss. He'd tell everybody and they—”

“No, he wouldn't. I'd break his neck if he did. . . . And—eh—” as another idea came to him, “he needn't know till 'twas all over. We could get married right off now, and not tell a soul—Kenelm or anybody else—till it was done. Then they could talk or shut up, we wouldn't care. They couldn't change nothin'.”

“Caleb Hammond, do you suppose I'd have the face to go to a minister in this town and have you tell him we'd come to get married? I'd be so ashamed—”

“Hold on! We don't have to go to a minister in this town. There's other towns with parsons in them, ain't they? We could drive over somewheres else.”

“Everybody'd see us drivin' together.”

“What of it? They see us drivin' to the Cattle Show together, didn't they?”

“Yes, and they've talked about it ever since, some of 'em. That Abbie Larkin said—Oh, I can't tell you what she said. No, I shan't do it. I shouldn't have the face. And everybody'd ask where we was bound, and I'd—I'd be so—so mortified and—and—why, I'd act like a reg'lar—er—er—domicile that had run away from the Idiots' Home. No, no, no! I couldn't.”

Mr. Hammond thought it over. Then he said:

“See here, Hannah, I cal'late we can fix that. We'll start in the night, after all hands have gone to bed. I'll sneak out about quarter to twelve and borrow Thankful's horse and buggy out of her barn. I know where she keeps the key. I'll be ready here at twelve prompt—or not here, maybe, but down in the hollow back of your henhouse. You must be there and we'll drive over to Trumet—”

“Trumet! Why, Caleb Hammond, I know everybody in Trumet well's I do here. And gettin' to Trumet at three o'clock in the mornin' would be—”

“Then we won't go to Trumet. We'll go to Bayport. It's quite a trip, but that's all the better 'cause we won't make Bayport till daylight. Then we'll hunt up a parson to marry us and come back here and tell folks when we get good and ready. Thankful'll miss the horse and team, I cal'late, but I'll fix that; I'll leave a note sayin' I took the critter, bein' called away on business.”

“Yes, but what will I tell Kenelm?”

“Don't tell him anything, the foolhead. Why, yes, you can leave a note sayin' you've gone up to the village, to the store or somethin', and that he must get his own breakfast 'cause you won't be back till after he's gone to work over to Thankful's. That'll fix it. By crimus! That'll fix it fine. Look here, Hannah Parker; I've set out to do this and, by crimus, I'm goin' to do it. Come on now; let's.”

Caleb was, as has been said, “sot” in his ways. He was “sot” now, and although Hannah continued to protest and declare she could not do such a thing, she yielded at last. Mr. Hammond left the Parker cottage in a triumphant mood. He had won his point and that had pleased him for a time; then, as he began to ponder upon that point and its consequences his triumph changed to misgiving and doubt. He had had no idea, until that forenoon, of marrying again. His proposal had been made on impulse, on the spur of the moment. He was not sure that he wished to marry Hannah Parker. But he had pleaded and persuaded her into accepting him that very night. Even if he wished to back out, how could he—now? He was conscious of an uneasy feeling that, perhaps, he had made a fool of himself.

He went to his room early in the evening and stayed there, looking at his watch and waiting for the rest of the family to retire. He heard Georgie's voice in the room at the end of the hall, where Mrs. Barnes was tucking the youngster in for the night. Later he heard Imogene come up the backstairs and, after her, Thankful herself. But it was nearly eleven before Heman Daniels' important and dignified step sounded on the front stairs and by that time the Hammond nerves were as taut as banjo strings.

It was nearly twelve before he dared creep downstairs and out of the back door, the key of which he left in the lock. Luckily the barn was a good distance from the house and Mrs. Barnes and Imogene were sound sleepers. But even with those advantages he did not dare attempt getting the buggy out of the barn, and decided to use the old discarded carryall, relic of “Cap'n Abner,” which now stood under the open shed at the rear.

George Washington looked at him in sleepy wonder as he tiptoed into the barn and lit the lantern. To be led out of his stall at “midnight's solemn hour” and harnessed was more than George's equine reasoning could fathom. The harnessing was a weird and wonderful operation. Caleb's trembling fingers were all thumbs. After a while, however, the harnessing was accomplished somehow and in some way, although whether the breeching was where the bridle should have been or vice versa was more than the harnesser would have dared swear. After several centuries, as the prospective bridegroom was reckoning time, the horse was between the shafts of the carriage and driven very carefully along the road to the Parker homestead.

He hitched the sleepy animal to a pine tree just off the road and tiptoed toward the hollow, the appointed rendezvous. To reach this hollow he was obliged to pass through the Parker yard and, although he went on tiptoe, each footstep sounded, in his ears, like the crack of doom. He tried to think of some explanation to be made to Kenelm in case the latter should hear and hail him, but he could think of nothing more plausible than that he was taking a walk, and this was far from satisfactory.

And then he was hailed. From a window above, at the extreme end of the kitchen, came a trembling whisper.

“Caleb! Caleb Hammond, is that you?”

Mr. Hammond's heart, which had been thumping anything but a wedding march beneath the summer under-flannels, leaped up and stuck in his throat; but he choked it down and gasped a faint affirmative.

“Oh, my soul and body! Where HAVE you been? I've been waitin' and waitin'.”

“What in time did you wait up there for? Why don't you come down?”

“I can't. Kenelm's locked the doors, and the keys are right next to his room door. I can't get down.”

Here was an unexpected obstacle. Caleb was nonplused.

“Go home!” wailed the voice from above. “Don't stand there. Go HOME! Can't you SEE it ain't any use? Go HOME!”

Five minutes before he received this order Mr. Hammond would have been only too glad to go home. Now he was startled and angry and, being angry, his habitual stubbornness developed.

“I shan't go home neither,” he whispered, fiercely. “If you can't come down I'll—I'll come up and get you.”

“Shh—shh! He'll hear you. Kenelm'll hear you.”

“I don't care much if he does. See here, Hannah, can't you get down nohow? How about that window? Can't you climb out of that window? Say, didn't I see a ladder layin' alongside the woodshed this mornin'?”

“Yes, there's a ladder there, but—where are you goin'? Mr. Hammond—Caleb—”

But Caleb was on his way to the woodshed. He found the ladder and laboriously dragged it beneath the window. Kenelm Parker had a local reputation for sleeping like the dead. Otherwise Mr. Hammond would never have dared risk the noise he was making.

Even after the ladder had been placed in position, Miss Parker hesitated. At first she flatly refused to descend, asserting that no mortal power could get her down that thing alive. But Caleb begged and commanded in agonized whispers, and finally she was prevailed upon to try. Mr. Hammond grasped the lower end of the ladder with a grip that brought the perspiration out upon his forehead, and the lady, with suppressed screams and ejaculations of “Oh, good Lord!” and “Heavens and earth! What shall I do?” reached the ground safe and more or less sound. They left the ladder where it was, and tiptoed fearfully out to the lane.

“Whew!” panted the exhausted swain, mopping his brow. “I'm clean tuckered out. I ain't done so much work for ten years.”

“Don't say a word, Caleb Hammond. If I ain't got my death of—of ammonia or somethin', I miss my guess. I'm all wheezed up from settin' at that open winder waitin' for you to come; and I thought you never WOULD come.”

As Caleb was helping the lady of his choice into the carryall he noticed that she carried a small hand-bag.

“What you got that thing for?” he demanded.

“It's my reticule; there's a clean handkerchief and a few other things in it. Mercy on us! You didn't suppose I'd go off to get married without even a decent handkerchief, did you? I feel enough like a sneakin' ragamuffin and housebreaker as 'tis. Why I ever was crazy enough to—where have you put the horse?”

Mr. Hammond led her to where George Washington was tethered. The father of his country was tired of standing alone in the damp, and he trotted off briskly. The first mile of their journey was accomplished safely, although the night was pitch-dark, and when they turned into the Bayport Road, which for two-thirds of its length leads through thick soft pine and scrub-oak woods, it was hard to distinguish even the horse's ears. Miss Parker insisted that every curtain of the carryall—at the back and both sides—should be closely buttoned down, as she was fearful of the effects of the night air.

“Fresh air never hurts nobody,” said Caleb. “There ain't nothin' so good for a body as fresh air. I sleep with my window open wide winter and summer.”

“You DO? Well, I tell you right now, I don't. I should say not! I shut every winder tight and I make Kenelm do the same thing. I don't run any risks from drafts.”

Mr. Hammond grunted, and was silent for some little time, only brightening up when the lady, now in a measure recovered from her fright and the anxiety of waiting, began to talk of the blessings that were to come from their independent wedded life in a home of their own.

“We'll keep chickens,” she said, “because I do like fresh eggs for breakfast. Let's see; this is the way 'twill be; you'll get up about five o'clock and kindle the fire, and—”

“Hey?”

“I say you'll get up at five o'clock and kindle the fire.”

“ME get up and kindle it?”

“Sartin; you don't expect I'm goin' to, do you?”

“No-o, I suppose not. It come kind of sudden, that's all. You see, I've been used to turnin' out about seven. Seldom get up afore that.”

“Seven! My soul! I always have my breakfast et by seven. Well, as I say, you get up at five and kindle the fire, and then you'll go out to the henyard and get what eggs there is. Then—”

“Then I'll come in and call you, and you'll come down and get breakfast. What breakfasts we will have! Eggs for you, if you want 'em, and ham and fried potatoes for me, and pie—”

“Pie? For breakfast?”

“Sartin. Laviny Marthy, my first wife, always had a piece of pie warmed for me, and I've missed it since. I don't really care two cents for breakfast without pie.”

“Well now, Caleb, if you think I'm goin' to get up and warm up pie every mornin', let alone fryin' potatoes, and—”

“See here, Hannah! Seems to me if I'm willin' to turn out at that ungodly hour and then go scratchin' around the henhouse to please you, you might be willin' to have a piece of pie het up for me.”

“Well, maybe you're right. But I must say—well, I'll try and do it. It'll seem kind of hard, though, after the simple breakfasts Kenelm and I have when we're alone. But—what are you stoppin' for?”

“There seems to be a kind of crossroads here,” said Caleb, bending forward and peering out of the carryall. “It's so everlastin' dark a feller can't see nothin'. Yes, there is crossroads, three of 'em. Now, which one do we take? I ain't drove to Bayport direct for years. When we went to the Cattle Show we went up through the Centre. Do you know which is the right road, Hannah?”

Hannah peered forth from the blackness of the back seat. “Now, let me think,” she said. “Last time I went to Bayport by this road was four year ago come next February. Sarah Snow's daughter Becky was married to a feller named Higgins—Solon Higgins' son 'twas. No, 'twa'n't his son, because—”

“Aw, crimus! Who cares if 'twas his aunt's gran'mother? What I want to know is which road to take.”

“Well, seems to me, nigh as I can recollect, that we took the left-hand road. No, I ain't sure but 'twas the right-hand. There's a bare chance that it might have been the middle one, 'cause there was trees along both sides. I know we was goin' to Becky Snow's weddin'—”

“Trees 'long it! There ain't nothin' BUT trees for two square miles around these diggin's. Git dap, you! I'll take the right-hand road. I think that's the way.”

“Well, so do I; but, as I say, I ain't sure. You needn't be so cross and unlikely, whether 'tis or 'tain't.”

If the main road had been dark, the branch road was darker, and the branches of the trees slapped and scratched the sides of the carryall. Caleb's whole attention was given to his driving, and he said nothing. Miss Parker at length broke the dismal silence.

“Caleb,” she said, “what time had we ought to get to Bayport?”

“About four o'clock, I should think. We'll drive 'round till about seven o'clock, and then we'll go and get married. I used to know the Methodist minister there, and—”

“METHODIST minister! You ain't goin' to a Methodist minister to be married?”

“I sartin shouldn't go to no one else. I've been goin' to the Methodist church for over thirty year. You know that well's I do.”

“I snum I never thought of it, or you wouldn't have got me this far without settlin' that question. I was confirmed into the Baptist faith when I was twelve year old. And you must have known that just as well as I knew you was a Methodist.”

“Well, if you knew I was one you ought to know I'd want a Methodist to marry me. 'Twas a Methodist married me afore.”

“Humph! What do you suppose I care who married you before? I'm the one that's goin' with you to be married now; and if I was married by anybody but a Baptist minister I wouldn't feel as if I was married at all.”

“Well, I shan't be married by no Baptist.”

“No Methodist shall marry ME.”

“Now, look here, Hannah—”

“I don't care, Caleb. You ain't done nothin' but contradict me since we started. I've been settin' up all night, and I'm tired out, and there's a draft comin' in 'round these plaguy curtains right on the back of my neck. I'll get cold and die and you'll have a funeral on your hands instead of a weddin'. And I don't know's I'd care much,” desperately.

Caleb choked down his own irritation.

“There, there, Hannah,” he said, “don't talk about dyin' when you're just gettin' ready to live. We won't fret about the minister business. If worst comes to worst I'll give in to a Baptist, I suppose. One reason I did figger on goin' to a Methodist was that, I bein' of that faith, I thought maybe he'd do the job a little cheaper for us.”

“Cheaper? What do you mean? Was you cal'latin' to make a BARGAIN with him?”

“No, no, course not. But there ain't any sense in heavin' money away on a parson more'n on anybody else.”

“Caleb Hammond, how much do you intend givin' that minister?”

Mr. Hammond stirred uneasily on the seat of the carryall.

“Oh, I don't know,” he answered evasively.

“Yes, you do know, too. How much?”

“I don't know. Two or three dollars, maybe.”

“TWO or three dollars! My soul and body! Is two dollars all you're willin' to give up to get MARRIED? Is THAT all the ceremony's worth to you? Two dollars! My soul!”

“Oh, let up! I don't care. I'll—I'll—” after a desperate wrestle with his sense of economy. “I'll give him whatever you say—in reason. Eh! . . . What's that foolhead horse stoppin' for now? What in the tunket's the matter with him?”

The matter was simply that in his hasty harnessing Mr. Hammond had but partially buckled one of the girths, and the horse was now half-way out of the shafts, with the larger part of the harness well up towards his ears. Caleb groaningly climbed down from the seat, rummaged out and lit the lantern, which he had been thoughtful enough to put under the seat before starting, and proceeded to repair damages. This took a long time, and in getting back to the carryall he tore a triangular rent in the back of his Sunday coat. He had donned his best clothes to be married in, and, to add to his troubles, had left his watch in the fob-pocket of his everyday trousers, so they had no means of knowing the time.

“That's a nice mess,” he grumbled, taking off his coat to examine the tear by the light of the lantern. “Nice-lookin' rag-bag I'll be to get married.”

“Maybe I can mend it when we get to Bayport,” said Miss Parker.

“What'll you mend it with—pins?”

“No, there's a needle and thread in my reticule. Wait till we get to Bayport and then—”

“Can't mend it in broad daylight ridin up and down the main street, can you? And I'd look pretty shuckin' my coat in the minister's parlor for you to patch up the holes in it. Couldn't you mend it now?”

Hannah announced her willingness to try, and the reticule being produced, the needle was threaded after numerous trials, and the mending began. Caleb, holding the lantern, watched the operation anxiously, his face falling at every stitch.

“I'm afraid I haven't made a good job of it,” sighed Hannah, gazing sorrowfully at the puckered and wrinkled star in the back of the garment. “If you'd only held that lantern steady, instead of jigglin' it round and round so, I might have done better.”

Mr. Hammond said nothing, but struggled into his coat, and picked up the reins. He sighed, heavily, and his sigh was echoed from the back seat of the carryall.

The road was now very rough, and the ruts were deep and full of holes. George Washington seemed to be stumbling through tall grass and bushes, and the carryall jolted and rocked from side to side. Miss Parker grew more and more nervous. After a particularly severe jolt she could not hold in any longer.

“Land of love, Caleb!” she gasped. “Where ARE you goin'! It doesn't seem as if this could be the right road!”

“I don't know whether 'tis or not; but it's too narrow and too dark to turn 'round, so we've got to go ahead, that's all.”

“Oh, heavens! What a jounce that was! Seems to me you're awful reckless. I wish Kenelm was drivin'; he's always so careful.”

This was too much. Mr. Hammond suppressed his feelings no longer.

“I wish to thunder he was!” he roared. “I wish Kenelm or some other dam' fool was here instead of me.”

“Caleb HAMMOND!”

“I don't care, Hannah. You're enough to drive a deacon to swearin'. It's been nothin' but nag, nag, nag, fight, fight, fight ever since this cruise started. If—if we row like this afore we're married what'll it be afterwards? Talk about bein' independent! Git dap there!” this a savage roar at George Washington, who had stopped again. “I do believe the idiot's struck with a palsy.”

Hannah leaned forward and touched her fellow-sufferer on the arm. “Sshh, shh, Caleb!” she said. “Don't holler so. I don't blame you for hollerin' and—and I declare I don't know as I much blame you for swearin', though I never thought I'D live to say a thing like that. But it ain't the horse deserves to be sworn at. He ain't the idiot; the idiots are you and me. We was both of us out of sorts this mornin', I guess—I know I was—and then you come along and we talked and—and, well, we both went into this foolish, ridiculous, awful piece of silliness without stoppin' to figger out whether we really wanted to, or whether we was liable to get along together, or anything else. Caleb, I've been wantin' to say this for the last hour or more—now I'm goin' to say it: You turn that horse's head around and start right home again.”

Mr. Hammond shook his head.

“No,” he said.

“I say yes. I don't want to marry you and I don't believe you want to marry me. Now do you—honest?”

Caleb was silent for a full minute. Then he drew a deep breath.

“It don't make no difference whether I do or not, fur's I can see,” he said, gloomily. “It's too late to start home now. I don't know what time 'tis, but we must have been ridin' three or four hours—seems eight or ten year to me—and we ought to be pretty near to Bayport. If we should turn back now we wouldn't get home till long after daylight, and everybody would be up and wantin' to know the whys and wherefores. If we told 'em we'd been ridin' around together all night, and didn't give any reasons for it, there'd be talk enough to last till Judgment. No, we've just got to get married now. That's all there is to it.”

Hannah groaned as the truth of this statement dawned upon her. Caleb gathered the reins in his hands preparatory to driving on, when a new thought came to him.

“Say, Hannah,” he observed, “I suppose you left that note for Kenelm, didn't you?”

Miss Parker uttered a faint shriek.

“Oh, my soul!” she cried. “I didn't! I didn't! I wrote it, but I was so upset when I found I couldn't get the doorkey and get out that way that I left the note in my bureau drawer.”

“Tut, tut! Huh! Well, he may find it there; let's hope he does.”

“But he won't! He WON'T! He never finds anything, even if it's in plain sight. He won't know what's become of me—”

“And he'll most likely have the whole town out lookin' for you. I guess now you see there's nothin' to do but for us to get married—don't you?”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” wailed Miss Parker, and burst into tears.

Caleb groaned. “Git dap!” he shouted to the horse. “No use cryin', Hannah. Might's well grin and bear it. The joyful bridal party'll now proceed.”

But the horse refused to proceed, and his driver, peering forward, dimly saw a black barrier in front of him. He lit the lantern once more and, getting out of the carryall, discovered that the road apparently ended at a rail fence that barred further progress.

“Queer,” he said. “We must be pretty nigh civilization. Got to Bayport, most likely, Hannah; there seems to be a buildin' ahead of us there. I'm goin' to take the lantern and explore. You set still till I come back.”

But this Miss Parker refused to do. She declared that she would not wait alone in those woods for anybody or anything. If her companion was going to explore so was she. So Mr. Hammond assisted her to alight, and after he had taken down the bars, the pair went on through a grove to where a large building loomed against the sky.

“A church,” said Caleb. “One of the Bayport churches, I cal'late. Wonder which 'tis?”

“There's always a sign on the front of a church,” said Hannah. “Let's go around front and see.”

There were no trees in front of the church, and when they came out by the front platform, Miss Parker exclaimed, “Well, I never! I wouldn't believe I'd remember so clear. This church seems just as familiar as if I was here yesterday. Why, what's the matter?”

Mr. Hammond was standing on the platform, holding his lantern up before a gilt-lettered placard by the church door.

“Hannah,” he gurgled, “this night's been too much for me. My foolishness has struck out of my brains into my eyes. I can't read straight. Look here.”

Hannah clambered up beside her agitated companion, and read from the placard these words:

“Good land!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Langworthy! Why, Mr. Langworthy is the minister at Wellmouth Centre, ain't he? I thought he was.”

“He is, but perhaps there's another one.”

“No, there ain't—not another Baptist. And—and this church, what little I can see of it, LOOKS like the Wellmouth Centre Baptist Church, too; I declare it does! . . . Where are you goin'?”

Caleb did not reply, neither did he turn back. Hannah, who did not propose to be left alone there in the dark, was hurrying after him, but he stopped and when she reached his side she found him holding the lantern and peering at an iron gate in a white fence. His face, seen by the lantern light, was a picture of bewildered amazement.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What IS it?”

He did not answer, but merely pointed to the gate.

“Eh? What—why—why, Caleb, that's—ain't that the Nickerson memorial gate? . . . It can't be! But—but it IS! Why—”

Mr. Hammond was muttering to himself.

“We took the wrong road at the crossin',” he said. “Then we must have switched again, probably when we was arguin' about kindlin' the fire; then we must have turned again when the harness broke; and that must have fetched us into Lemuel Ellis' wood-lot road that comes out—”

“Eh? Lemuel Ellis' wood-lot? Why, Lemuel's wood-lot is at—”

“It's at Wellmouth Centre, that's where 'tis. No wonder that church looked familiar. Hannah, we ain't been nigh Bayport. We've been ridin' round and round in circles through them woods all night.”

“Caleb HAMMOND!”

Before Caleb could add anything to his astonishing statement the silence of the night was broken by the clang of the bell in the tower of the church. It clanged four times.

“WHAT!” exclaimed Caleb. “Only four o'clock! It can't be!”

“My soul!” cried Miss Parker, “only four! Why—why, I thought we'd been ridin' ten hours at least. . . . Caleb Hammond, you and me don't want to find a minister; what we need to look up is a pair of guardians to take care of us.”

But Mr. Hammond seized her arm.

“Hannah,” he cried, excitedly, “do you understand what that means—that clock strikin'? It means that, bein' as we're only five miles from home, we can GET home, if we want to, afore anybody's out of bed. You can sneak up that ladder again; I can get that horse and team back in Thankful's stable; we can both be in our own beds by gettin'-up time and not one soul need ever know a word about this foolishness. If we—”

But Miss Parker had not waited for him to finish; she was already on her way to the carryall.

At a quarter after seven that morning Thankful knocked at the door of her boarder's room.

“Mr. Hammond!” she called. “Mr. Hammond!”

Caleb awoke with a start.

“Eh?” he said.

“Are you up? It's most breakfast time.”

Caleb, now more thoroughly awake, looked about his room. It was real; he was actually in it—and safe—and still single.

“Yes—yes; all right,” he said. “I'll get right up. Must have overslept myself, I guess. What—what made you call me? Nothin'—er—nothin's happened, has it?”

“No, nothin's happened. But you're usually up by seven and, as I hadn't heard a sound from you, I was afraid you might be sick.”

“No, no; I ain't sick. I'm feelin' fine. Has—has Kenelm Parker got here yet?”

“Yes, he's here.”

“Ain't—ain't said nothin', has he?”

“Said anything? No. What do you mean? What did you expect him to say?”

“Nothin', nothin', I—I wondered what sort of a drive he and Imogene had yesterday, that's all. I thought it would be fine to hear him tell about it. You run along, Mrs. Barnes; I'll hurry and get dressed.”

He jumped out of bed. He was tired and lame and his head ached—but, Oh, he was happy! He had stabled George Washington and reached his room without disturbing anyone. And, as Kenelm had, according to Mrs. Barnes, spoken and appeared as usual, it was evident that Hannah Parker, too, had gotten safely and undetected to her own apartment.

Thankful knocked at his door again.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “but Melindy Pease hasn't sent home your mendin' yet. I'm afraid you'll have to do without your—er—your winter things for one more day.”

“Hey? My winter—Oh, yes, yes. Well, I don't care. It's warmer today than 'twas yesterday.”

“Oh no, it isn't; it's a good deal colder. I hope you won't catch cold.”

“No, no, I shan't. I'm feelin' fine.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.”

“Thank goodness for a good many things,” said Mr. Hammond, devoutly.