The Methodist church stood on the slope of a little hill, back from the Main Road, and the parsonage was next door. Between the church and the parsonage was a stretch of lawn, dotted with shrubs and cedars and shaded by two big silver-leaf poplars. It was on this lawn that, provided the night was fair, the strawberry festival was to be held. If the weather should be unpropitious the festival was to be in the church vestry.

All that day Dorinda was busy baking and icing cake. She was not going to the festival—partly because I was going and she could not leave Mother—but principally because such affairs were altogether too frivolous to fit in her scheme of orthodoxy. “I don't recollect,” she said, “that the apostles did much strawberry festivalin'; they had other things to attend to.” Lute, however, was going and if he had been invited to a Presidential reception he could not have been much more excited. He was dressed and ready at supper time, although the festival did not begin until seven-thirty.

“Think I'm all right, Dorindy, do you?” he queried, anxiously turning himself about for his wife's inspection. “How about these new pants? Fur enough down on my boots, be they?”

Dorinda looked him over with a critical eye. “Um-hm,” she observed, “that end of 'em seems to be all right. But I cal'late the upper end ain't been introduced to your vest yet. Anyhow, the two don't seem to be well enough acquainted to associate close.”

Lute bent forward to inspect the hiatus between trousers and waistcoat. “By time!” he exclaimed, “I told Sim Eldredge they was too short in the waist. He said if they was any longer they'd wrinkle under the arms. I don't know what to do. If I hist 'em up they'll be what the fellers call high-water, won't them?”

“Humph! I'd ruther have 'em high-water than shoal in the middle of the channel. You'll have to average up somehow. I ought to have known better than to trust you to buy anything all by yourself.”

She condescended to approve of my appearance when, an hour later, I came downstairs, garbed in my best.

“Humph!” she vouchsafed, after a long look. “I declare! I'd hardly know you, Roscoe. You look more as you used to when you fust come here to live.”

“Thanks,” I answered, drily. “I'm glad to see that you respect old age. This suit is venerable enough to command that kind of respect.”

“'Tain't the suit, though that's all right enough. It's the way you wear it, I guess. You look BETTER than you used to. You're browned up and broadened out and it's real becomin'. But,” she added, with characteristic caution, “you must remember that good looks don't count for much. My father used to say to me that handsome is that handsome does. Not that I was so homely I'd scare the crows, but he didn't want me to be vain. Now don't fall overboard in THAT suit, will you?”

Mother noticed my unwonted grandeur when I went in to say good-night to her.

“Why, Roscoe!” she exclaimed. “You must consider this strawberry festival very important.”

“Why, Mother?”

“Because you've taken such pains to dress for it.”

“It did not require a great deal of pains. I merely put on what Dorinda calls my Sunday clothes. I don't know why I did, either. I certainly don't consider the festival important.”

“I am glad you did. I have been a little troubled about you of late, Boy. It has seemed to me that you were growing—well, not careless, exactly, but indifferent. As if you were losing interest in life. I don't blame you. Compelled to waste your time here in the country, a companion to a bedridden old woman like me.”

“Hush, Mother. You're not old; and as to wasting my time—why, Mother, you know—”

“Yes, yes, Boy, I know what you would say. But it does trouble me, nevertheless. I ought to bid you go back into the world, and take your place among men. A hundred times I have been upon the point of telling you to leave me, but—but—I am SO selfish.”

“Hush, Mother, please.”

“Yes, I AM selfish and I know it. I am growing stronger every day; I am sure of it. Just a little longer, Roscoe, just a little longer, and then—”

“Mother, I—”

“There, there!” she stroked my hand. “We won't be sad, will we. It pleases me to see you taking an interest in affairs. I think this Shore Lane matter may be a good thing, after all. Dorinda says that Luther tells her you are becoming very popular in town because of your independent stand. Everyone recognizes your public spirit.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Not in those words. You know Dorinda. But what amounts to that. I am sure the Denboro people are very proud of you.”

I thought of my “popularity” and the admiration of my “public spirit” as manifested in the attentions of Captain Jed and Eldredge and their followers, and I turned my head away so that she might not see my face.

“And I am glad you are going to the strawberry festival. I can't remember when you attended such a function before. Boy—”

“Yes, Mother.”

“There isn't any reason, any special reason, for your going, is there?”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I mean—well, you are young and I did not know but, perhaps, some one else was going, some one you were interested in, and—and—”

I laughed aloud. “Mother!” I said, reproachfully.

“Why not? I am very proud of my handsome boy, and I know that—”

“There! there! I haven't noticed that my beauty is so fascinating as to be dangerous. No, Mother, there is no 'special reason' for my going to-night. I promised George Taylor, that was all.”

“Well, I am sure you will have a good time. Kiss me, Boy. Good-night.”

I was by no means so sure of the good time. In fact, I loitered on my way to the village and it was well past eight o'clock when I paid my fifteen cents admission fee to Elnathan Mullet at the gate of the church grounds and sauntered up the slope toward the lights and gaiety of the strawberry festival.

The ladies of the Methodist society, under whose management the affair was given, were fortunate in their choice of an evening. The early risen moon shone from a cloudless sky and there was so little breeze that the Japanese lanterns, hung above the tables, went out only occasionally. The “beauty and elite of Denboro”—see next week's Cape Cod Item—were present in force and, mingling with them, or, if not mingling, at least inspecting them with interest, were some of the early arrivals among the cottagers from South Denboro and Bayport. I saw Lute, proudly conscious of his new lavender trousers, in conversation with Matilda Dean, and I wondered who was the winner in that wordy race. Captain Jedediah strutted arm in arm with the minister. Thoph Newcomb and Alvin Baker were there with their wives. Simeon Eldredge had not yet put in an appearance but I knew that he would as soon as the evening mail was sorted.

I found Nellie Dean in charge of a table, and George Taylor seated at that table. I walked over and joined them.

“Good evening, Nellie,” said I. “Well, George, here I am, you see.”

He shook my hand heartily. “I see you are,” he said. “Good boy! How does it seem to splash into society?”

“I haven't splashed yet. I have only just arrived.”

“Oh, trying the feel of the water, hey? Guess you won't find it very chilly. As a preparatory tonic I'd recommend strawberries and cream. Nellie, get Ros a saucer of those genuine home-raised berries, why don't you?”

Nellie laughed. “Roscoe,” she said, “isn't he dreadful! He knows we bought these berries in Boston. It's much too early for the native ones. But they really are very nice, though he does make such fun of them.”

She went into the vestry to get the berries and I sat down at the table beside Taylor and looked about me.

“Most everybody's here,” he observed. “And they'll be glad to see you, Ros. Get out and shake hands and be sociable, after you've done your duty by the fruit. How are things at home?”

“Mother is herself again, I am glad to say. George, I have scarcely thought of anything except what you told me the other night.”

“Then it's time you did. That's one reason why I wanted you to come here. You've been thinking too much about yourself.”

“It isn't of myself, but of Mother. If you had dropped a hint when that Boston reporter came—”

“Now, look here, Ros, would YOU have dropped hints if things had been the other way around?”

“I don't know.”

“I know you wouldn't. What's the use of giving the Denboro gossip mill a chance to run over time? Great heavens! it works twelve hours a day as 'tis.”

“It was mighty good of you, just the same.”

“No, it wasn't. The whole affair was your business and nobody else's.”

“Well, as I said before, if ever I have an opportunity to do as much for you—not that I ever will.”

“How do you know you won't? Anybody's liable to be gossiped about some time or other.”

“Not you. You are Denboro's shining light. The mothers and fathers here point you out as an example of what industry and ambition and honest effort may rise to. I—”

“Shut up!” He said it almost savagely. “There!” he added, quickly, “let's change the subject. Talk about something worth while. Humph! I guess they must be opening another crate of those Boston 'homegrowns,' judgin' by the time it takes Nellie to get your sample.”

“I am in no hurry. How are affairs at the bank?”

“Oh, so, so. Don't know a good man who wants a job, do you? Henry Small's going to leave the middle of next month.”

“Small, the bookkeeper? Why?”

“Got a better chance up to the city. I don't blame him. Don't tell anybody yet; it's a secret. Say, Ros, DO you know of a good, sharp, experienced fellow?”

I smiled. “Is it likely?” I asked. “How large is my acquaintance among sharp, experienced fellows down here?”

“Not so large as it ought to be, I'll give in to that. But you know one.”

“Do I, indeed? Who is he?”

“Yourself. You wouldn't take Small's job, would you?”

“I?” I laughed aloud.

“It's no joke. You've had a lot of banking experience. I've heard about it among my city friends, who don't know I know you. Course I realize the place is way beneath what you ought to have, but—”

“Oh, don't be sarcastic. No, thank you, George.”

“All right, if you say so. But I meant it. You don't need the salary, I know. But—Ros, do you mind if I talk plain for a moment?”

I wondered what was coming now. “No,” I answered. “Go ahead and talk.”

“Well then, I tell you, as a friend, that 'twould be a good thing for you if you did take that job, or some other one. Don't make much matter what it is, but you ought to do something. You're too clever a fellow to be hanging around, shooting and fishing. You're wasting your life.”

“That was wasted long ago.”

“No, it wasn't. But it will be if you don't change pretty soon. I tell you you ought to get interested in something that counts. You might make a big name for yourself yet.”

“That's enough of that. I have a name already. You know it, and you know what was made of it.”

“YOU didn't make it that kind of a name, did you? And you're young enough to make it something altogether different. You ought to. You owe it to your mother and you owe it to yourself. As it is, if you keep on, you'll—”

“George, you've said enough. No one but you would have been permitted to say as much. You don't understand.”

“Maybe not, but, Ros, I don't like to have people around here call you—”

“I don't care a continental what they call me. I don't want them to know who I am, but for public opinion generally I care nothing.”

He leaned back in his chair. His face was in shadow and I could not see it, but his tone was grave enough.

“You think you don't,” he said, slowly, “but there may come a time when you will. There may come a time when you get so interested in something, or some person, that the thought of what folks would say if—if anything went wrong would keep you awake night after night. Oh, I tell you, Ros—Hello, Nellie! thought you'd gone South to pick those berries yourself. Two saucers full! Well, I suppose I must eat the other to save it—unless Ros here wants both.”

I said one would be quite sufficient for the present, and we three chatted until Mrs. Dean came over and monopolized the chat.

“Don't go, Roscoe,” protested the matron. “The Cap'n's here and he'll want to talk to you. He's dreadful interested in you just now. Don't talk about nobody else, scurcely. You set still and I'll go fetch him.”

But I refused to “set.” I knew the cause of Captain Jedediah's interest, and what he wished to talk about. I rose and announced that I would stroll about a bit. Taylor spoke to me as I was leaving.

“Ros,” he said, earnestly, “you think of what I told you, will you?”

I saw a group of people hurrying toward the entrance of the grounds and I followed them, curious as to the cause of the excitement. An automobile had stopped by the gate. Sim Eldredge came hastening up and seized me by the arm.

“Gosh! it's Ros,” he exclaimed, in his mysterious whisper. “I hadn't seen you afore; just got here myself. But I'm glad you ARE here. I'll see that you and him get a chance to talk private.”

“Who?” I asked, trying to pull my arm free.

“Why, Mr. Colton. Didn't you know? Yes, sir, that's his car. He's come and so's his daughter and that young Carver feller. I believe they've come to take in the sociable. There they be! See 'em! See 'em!”

I saw them. Colton and Victor had already alighted and Miss Colton was descending from the tonneau. There were two other men in the car, beside Oscar, the chauffeur.

“Who are those other people?” I asked.

“I don't know,” whispered Sim, excitedly. “Stay where you be and I'll find out. I'll be right back, now. Don't you move.”

I did not move, not because he had ordered me to stay where I was, but because I was curious. The spot where I stood was in shadow and I knew they could not see me.

Colton and his daughter were talking with Victor, who remained by the step of the auto.

“Well, Mabel,” observed “Big Jim,” “here we are, though why I don't know. I hope you enjoy this thing more than I am likely to.”

“Of course I shall enjoy it, Father. Look at the decorations. Aren't they perfectly WONDERFUL!”

“Especially the color scheme,” drawled Victor. “Mabel, I call your attention to the red, blue and purple lanterns. Some class? Yes? Well, I must go. I'll be back in a very short time. If Parker wasn't starting for Europe to-morrow I shouldn't think of leaving, but I'm sure you'll forgive me, under the circumstances.”

“I forgive you, Victor,” replied the girl, carelessly. “But don't be too long.”

“No, don't,” added her father. “I promised Mrs. Colton that I should not be away more than an hour. She's very nervous to-night and I may be sent for any time. So don't keep us waiting.”

“No fear of that. I'll be back long before you are ready to go. I wouldn't miss this—er—affair myself for something. Ah, our combination friend, the undertaking postmaster.”

Sim's hat was in his hand and he was greeting Mr. Colton.

“Proud to see you amongst us, sir,” said Sim, with unction. “The Methodist folks are havin' quite a time to-night, ain't they?”

“How d'ye do, Eldredge,” was the great man's salutation, not at all effusive. “Where does all this crowd come from? Didn't know there were so many people in the neighborhood.”

“'Most everybody's out to-night. Church'll make consider'ble money. Good evenin', Miss Colton. Mr. Carver, pleased to meet you again, sir.”

The young lady merely nodded. Victor, whose foot was on the step of the car, did not deign to turn.

“Thanks,” he drawled. “I am—er—embalmed, I'm sure. All ready, Phil. Let her go, Oscar.”

The auto moved off. Mr. Colton gave his arm to his daughter and they moved through the crowd, Eldredge acting as master of ceremonies.

“It's all right, Elnathan,” ordered Sim, addressing the gate-keeper. “Don't bother Mr. Colton about the admission now. I'll settle with you, myself, later. Now, Mr. Colton, you and the lady come right along with me. Ain't met the minister yet, have you? He said you wan't to home when he called. And you let me get you some strawberries. They're fust-rate, if I do say it.”

He led the way toward the tables. I watched the progress from where I stood. It was interesting to see how the visitors were treated by the different groups. Some, like Sim, were gushing and obsequious. A few, Captain Jed among them, walked stubbornly by, either nodding coldly or paying no attention. Others, like George Taylor and Doctor Quimby, were neither obsequious nor cold, merely bowing pleasantly and saying, “Good evening,” as though greeting acquaintances and equals. Yes, there WERE good people in Denboro, quiet, unassuming, self-respecting citizens.

One of them came up to me and spoke.

“Hello, Ros,” said Captain Elisha Warren, “Sim's havin' the time of his life, isn't he?”

“He seems to be,” I replied.

“Yes. Well, there's some satisfaction in havin' a thick shell; then you don't mind bein' stepped on. Yet, I don't know; sometimes I think fellers of Sim's kind enjoy bein' stepped on, provided the boot that does it is patent leather.”

“I wonder why they came here,” I mused.

“Who? the Coltons? Why, for the same reason children go to the circus, I shouldn't wonder—to laugh at the clowns. I laugh myself sometimes—though 'tain't always at their kind of clowns. Speakin' of that, young Carver's in good company this evenin', ain't he?”

“Who were those fellows in the auto?” I asked.

“Didn't you recognize them? One was Phil Somers—son of the rich widow who owns the big cottage at Harniss. 'Tother is a bird of the same flock down visitin' em. Carver's takin' 'em over to Ostable to say good-by to another specimen, a college mate, who is migratin' to Europe tomorrow. The chauffeur told Dan, my man, about it this afternoon. The chauffeur figgered that, knowin' the crowd, 'twas likely to be a lively farewell. Hello! there's Abbie hailin' me. See you later, Ros.”

I knew young Somers by reputation. He and his friends were a wild set, if report was true.

Eldredge had hinted that he intended arranging an interview between Colton and myself. The prospect did not appeal to me. At first I decided to go home at once, but something akin to Captain Dean's resentful stubbornness came over me. I would not be driven home by those people. I found an unoccupied camp chair—one of Sim's, which he rented for funerals—and carried it to a dark spot in the shrubbery near the border of the parsonage lawn and not far from the gate. There I seated myself, lit a cigar and smoked in solitude.

Elnathan Mullet, evidently considering his labors as door-keeper over, was counting his takings by lantern light. The moon was low in the west and a little breeze was now stirring the shrubbery. It was very warm for the season and I mentally prophesied thunder showers before morning.

I had smoked my cigar perhaps half through when a carriage came down the road and stopped before the gate. The driver leaned forward and called to Mullet.

“Hi, Uncle!” he shouted. “You, by the gate! Is Mr. Colton here?”

Elnathan, who was, apparently, half asleep, looked up.

“Hey?” he queried. “Mr. Colton? Yes, he's here. Want him, do you?”

“Yes. Where is he?”

“Up yonder somewheres. There he is, by Sarah Burgess's table. Mr. Colton! Mr. Col—ton! Somebody wants ye!”

“What in blazes did you yell like that for?” protested the coachman, springing from the carriage. “Stop it, d'ye hear?”

“You said you wanted him, didn't you? Mr. Colton! Hi! Come here!”

Colton came hurrying down to the gate, his daughter following more slowly.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

The coachman touched his hat.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “this man started yelling before I could stop him. I was coming to tell you. Mrs. Colton says she's very nervous, sir, and please come home at once.”

Colton turned with a shrug to his daughter. “We might have expected it, Mabel,” he said. “Come.”

But the young lady seemed to hesitate. “I believe I won't go yet, Father,” she said. “Mother doesn't need both of us. Victor will be here very soon, and we promised to wait for him, you know.”

“We can leave word. You'd better come, Mabel. Heavens and earth! you don't want any MORE of this, do you?”

It was evident that he had had quite enough of the festival. She laughed lightly.

“I'm finding it very entertaining,” she said. “I never saw so many quaint people. There is one girl, a Miss Dean, whom I am really getting acquainted with. She's as country as can be, but she's very interesting.”

“Humph! she must be. Dean, hey? Daughter of my particular friend, the ancient mariner, I suppose. I don't like to leave you here. What shall I tell your mother?”

“Tell her I am quite safe and in perfectly respectable company.”

“Humph! I can imagine how respectable she'll think it is. Well, I know it's useless to urge if you have made up your mind. I don't see where you get your stubbornness from.”

“Don't you? I can guess.”

“It isn't from your dad. Now do be careful, won't you? If Victor doesn't come soon I shall send the carriage.”

“Oh, he will come. It's all right, Father, dear. I am quite able to take care of myself.”

Her father shook his head. “Yes,” he observed, “I guess you are. All right, Jenkins.”

He got into the carriage and was driven off. Miss Colton turned and walked back to the tables. I relit my cigar.

Another half-hour passed.

Mullet finished his counting, took up his money box and lantern and left the gate unguarded. Groups of home-going people began to come down the hill. Horses, which had been standing under the church sheds or hitched in neighboring yards, appeared and the various buggies and two-seaters to which they were attached were filled and driven away. Captain Warren and Miss Abbie Baker, his housekeeper, were among the first to leave. Abijah Hammond, the sexton, began taking down the lanterns. The strawberry festival was almost over.

I rose from my camp chair and prepared to start for home. As I stepped from behind the shrubbery the moonlight suddenly went out, as if it had been turned off like a gas jet. Except for the few remaining lanterns and the gleams from the church windows and door the darkness was complete. I looked at the western sky. It was black, and low down along the horizon flashes of lightning were playing. My prophecy of showers was to be fulfilled.

The ladies of the Methodist Society, assisted by their husbands and male friends, were hurrying the tables and chairs indoors. I picked up and folded the chair I had been occupying and joined the busy group. It was so dark that faces were almost invisible, but I recognized Sim Eldredge by his voice, and George Taylor and I bumped into each other as we seized the same table.

“Hello, Ros!” exclaimed the cashier. “Thought you'd gone. Going to have a tempest, ain't we.”

“Tempest” is Cape Cod for thunderstorm. I agreed that one was imminent.

“Hold on till I get this stuff into the vestry,” continued Taylor, “and I'll drive you home. I'll be ready pretty soon.”

I declined the invitation. “I'll walk,” I answered. “You have Nellie to look after. If you have a spare umbrella I'll borrow that. Where is Nellie?”

“Oh, she's over yonder with Miss Colton. They have been making each other's acquaintance. Say, Ros, she's a good deal of a girl, that Colton one, did you know it?”

I did not answer.

“Oh, I know you're down on the whole lot of 'em,” he added, laughing; “but she is, just the same. Kind of top-lofty and condescending, but that's the fault of her bringing-up. She's all right underneath. Too good for that Carver cub. By the way, if he doesn't come pretty soon I'll phone her pa to send the carriage for her. If I was Colton I wouldn't put much confidence in Carver's showing up in a hurry. You saw the gang he was with, didn't you? They don't get home till morning, till daylight doth appear, as a usual thing. Hello! that's the carriage now, ain't it? Guess papa wasn't taking any chances.”

Sure enough, there were the lights of a carriage at the gate, and I heard the voice of Jenkins, the coachman, shouting. Nellie Dean called Taylor's name and he hurried away. A few moments later he returned.

“She's off, safe and sound,” he said. “I judged she wasn't any too well pleased with her Victor for not showing up to look out for her.”

A sharp flash of lightning cut the sky and a rattling peal of thunder followed.

“Right on top of us, ain't it!” exclaimed George. “Sure you don't want me to drive you home? All right; just as you say. Hold on till I get you that umbrella.”

He borrowed an umbrella from the parsonage. I took it, thanked him, and hastened out of the church grounds. I looked up the road as I passed through the gate. I could have seen an auto's lamps for a long distance, but there were none in sight. With a malicious chuckle I thought that my particular friend Victor was not taking the surest way of making himself popular with his fiancee, if that was what she was.

The storm overtook me before I was half-way down the Lower Road. A few drops of rain splashed the leaves. A lightning stroke so near and sharp that I fancied I could hear the hiss was accompanied by a savage thunder-clap. Then came the roar of wind in the trees by the roadside and down came the rain. I put up my umbrella and began to run. We have few “tempests” in Denboro, those we do have are almost worthy of the name.

I had reached the grove of birches perhaps two hundred yards from the Shore Lane when out of the wet darkness before me came plunging a horse drawing a covered carriage. I had sprung to one side to let it go by when I heard a man's voice shouting, “Whoa!” The voice did not come from the carriage but from the road behind it.

“Whoa! Stop him!” it shouted.

I jumped back into the road. The horse saw me appear directly in front of him, shied and reared. The carriage lamps were lighted and by their light I saw the reins dragging. I seized them and held on. It was all involuntary. I was used to horses and this one was frightened, that was all.

“Whoa, boy!” I ordered. “Whoa! Stand still!”

The horse had no intention of standing still.

He continued to rear and plunge. I, clinging to the reins, found myself running alongside. I had to run to avoid the wheels. But I ran as slowly as I could, and my one hundred and ninety pounds made running, on the animal's part, a much less easy exercise.

The voice from the rear continued to shout and, in another moment, a man seized the reins beside me. Together we managed to pull the horse into a walk. Then the man, whom I recognized as the Colton coachman, vented his feelings in a comprehensive burst of profanity. I interrupted the service.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, this blessed”—or words to that effect—“horse is scared of thunder; that's all. He's a new one; we just bought him before we came down here and I hadn't learned his little tricks. Whoa! stand still, or I'll break your dumb neck! Say,” turning to me, “go back, will you, and see if she's all right.”

“Who?”

“Miss Colton—the old man's daughter. She got out when he began to dance and I was holding him by the bridle. Then came that big flash and he broke loose. Go back and see to her, will you? I can't leave this horse.”

For just a moment I hesitated. I am ashamed of my hesitation now, but this is supposed to be a truthful chronicle. Then I went back down the road. By another flash of lightning I saw the minister's umbrella upside down in the bushes where I had dropped it, and I took it with me. I was about as wet as I well could be but I am glad to say I remembered that the umbrella was a borrowed one.

After I had walked, or stumbled, or waded a little way I stopped and called.

“Miss Colton,” I called. “Where are you?”

“Here,” came the answer from just ahead. “Is that you, Jenkins?”

I did not reply until I reached her side.

“You are not hurt?” I asked.

“No, not at all. But who is it?”

“I am—er—your neighbor. Paine is my name.”

“Oh!” the tone was not enthusiastic. “Where is Jenkins?”

“He is attending to the horse. Pardon me, Miss Colton, but won't you take this umbrella?”

This seemed to strike her as a trifle absurd. “Why, thank you,” she said, “but I am afraid an umbrella would be useless in this storm. Is the horse all right?”

“Yes, though he is very much frightened. I—”

I was interrupted by another flash and terrific report from directly overhead. The young lady came closer to me.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

I had an idea. The flash had made our surroundings as light as day for an instant and across the road I saw Sylvanus Snow's old house, untenanted, abandoned and falling to decay. I took Miss Colton's arm.

“Come!” I said.

She hung back. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Just across the road to that old house. On the porch we shall be out of the rain.”

She made no further objections and together we stumbled through the wet grass and over Sylvanus's weed-grown flower beds. I presume I shall never again smell the spicy fragrance of “old maids' pinks” without thinking of that night.

I found the edge of the piazza by the direct process of barking my shins against it, and helped her up on to the creaking boards. My sanguine statement that we should be out of the rain proved not quite true. There was a roof above us, but it leaked. I unfurled the wet umbrella and held it over her head.

For some moments after we reached the piazza neither of us spoke. The roar of the rain on the shingles of the porch and the splash and gurgle all about us would have made conversation difficult, even if we had wished to talk. I, for one, did not. At last she said:

“Do you see or hear anything of Jenkins?”

I listened, or tried to. I was wondering myself what had become of the coachman.

“No,” I answered, “I don't hear him.”

“Where do you suppose he is? He could not have been far away when you met him.”

“He was not. And I know he intended to come back at once.”

“You don't suppose Caesar—the horse—ran away again? When that second crack came?”

I was wondering that very thing. That particular thunder clap was louder and more terrifying than those preceding it. However, there was no use in alarming her.

“I guess not,” I answered. “He'll be here soon, I am sure.”

But he did not come. The storm seemed to be passing over. The flashes were just as frequent, but there was a longer interval between each flash and its thunder peal. The rain was still a steady downpour.

Miss Colton was plainly growing more anxious.

“Where can he be?” she murmured.

“Don't be frightened,” I urged. “He is all right. I'll go and look him up, if you don't mind being left alone.”

“Can't—can't we go together?”

“We could, of course, but there is no use in your getting wetter than you are. If you are willing to stay here I will run up the road and see if I can find him.”

“Thank you. But you will get wet yourself.”

“Oh, I am wet already. Take the umbrella. I'll be back in a minute.”

I pressed the handle of the umbrella into her hand—it was as steady as mine—and darted out into the flood. I think she called me to come back, but I did not obey. I ran up the road until I was some distance beyond the point where I had stopped the runaway, but there were no signs of horse, carriage or coachman. I called repeatedly, but got no reply. Then, reluctantly, I gave it up and returned to the porch.

She gave a little gasp of relief when I reached her side.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “did you find him?”

“No,” I answered. “He seems to have gone on. He cannot have gone far. It is only a little way to the Corners.”

“Is—isn't there a house, a house with people living in it, near this place?”

“No nearer than your house, Miss Colton. We seem to have chosen the most forsaken spot in Denboro to be cast away in. I am very sorry.”

“I am not frightened for myself. But I know my father and mother will be alarmed if I don't come soon. I am sure Caesar must have run away again, and I am afraid Jenkins must be hurt.”

I had thought of that, too. Only an accident could explain the coachman's non-appearance or, at least, his not sending help to his mistress.

“If you are really not afraid to remain here, Miss Colton,” I said, “I will go to your house myself.”

“Oh no! Some one will come soon. I can't understand where Victor—Mr. Carver—can be. He was to have joined me at the church.”

I did not answer. Knowing Mr. Carver's associates and the errand upon which he had gone, I imagined I could guess the cause of his delay. But I did not speak my guess.

“The storm is not as severe just now,” I said. “I can get to your house in a little while, if you are willing I should leave you.”

She put her hand on my arm. “Come,” she said. “Shall we start now?”

“But you must not go. You couldn't get there on foot, such a night as this.”

“Yes, I can. I mean to. Please come.”

I still hesitated. She took her hand from my arm and stepped out into the rain. “Are you coming?” she said.

I joined her, still protesting. We splashed on through the mud and water, she clinging lightly to my arm and I holding the perfectly useless umbrella over her head. The rain was descending steadily and the sky overhead was just black, but along the western horizon, as I caught a glimpse of it between the trees, I fancied the blackness was a little less opaque. The storm was passing over, sure enough.

But before it passed it gave us one goodby salute. We had about reached the point on the Shore Lane where I first met her and Carver in the auto. The shaky bridge over Mullet's cranberry brook was just ahead. Then, without warning, the black night split wide open, a jagged streak of fire shot from heaven to earth and seemed to explode almost in our faces. I was almost knocked off my feet and my fingers tingled as if I had been holding the handles of an electric battery. The umbrella flew out of my hands and, so far as I was concerned, vanished utterly. I believe Elnathan picked up the ruin next day, but just then I neither knew nor cared what had become of it. I had other things to think of.

But for a moment I could not think at all. I was conscious of a great crashing and rustling and splintering directly in front of me and then I realized that the young lady was no longer clinging to my arm. I looked about and up through the darkness. Then down. She was lying at my feet.

I bent over her.

“Miss Colton!” I cried. “Miss Colton! Are you hurt?”

She neither answered nor moved. My brain was still numb from the electric shock and I had a dazed fear that she might be dead. I shook her gently and she moaned. I spoke again and again, but she did not answer, nor try to rise. The rain was pouring down upon us and I knew she must not lie there. So once more, just as I had done in the dingy, but now under quite different circumstances and with entirely different feelings, I stooped and lifted her in my arms.

My years of outdoor life in Denboro had had one good effect at least; they had made me strong. I carried her with little effort to the bridge. And there I stopped. The bridge was blocked, covered with a mass of wet leafy branches and splintered wood. The lightning bolt had missed us by just that much. It had overthrown and demolished the big willow tree by the brook and to get through or over the tangle was impossible.

So again history repeated itself. I descended the bank at the side of the bridge and waded through the waters with Mabel Colton in my arms. I staggered up the opposite bank and hurried on. She lay quiet, her head against my shoulder. Her hat had fallen off and a wet, fragrant strand of her hair brushed my cheek. Once I stopped and bent my head to listen, to make sure that she was breathing. She was, I felt her breath upon my face. Afterwards I remembered all this; just then I was merely thankful that she was alive.

I had gone but a little way further when she stirred in my arms and spoke.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” I answered, with a sigh of relief. “It is all right. We shall be there soon.”

“But what is the matter? Why are you—let me walk, please.”

“You had better stay as you are. You are almost home.”

“But why are you carrying me? What is the matter?”

“You—you fainted, I think. The lightning—”

“Oh yes, I remember. Did I faint? How ridiculous! Please let me walk now. I am all right. Really I am.”

“But I think—”

“Please. I insist.”

I set her gently on her feet. She staggered a little, but she was plucky and, after a moment, was able to stand and walk, though slowly.

“You are sure you can manage it?” I asked.

“Of course! But why did I faint? I never did such a thing before in my life.”

“That flash was close to us. It struck the big willow by the brook.”

“Did it! As near as that?”

“Yes. Don't try to talk.”

“But I am all right . . . I am not hurt at all. Are we almost home?”

“Yes. Those are the lights of your house ahead there.”

We moved on more rapidly. As we turned in at the Colton walk she said, “Why; it has stopped raining.”

It had, though I had not noticed it. The flash which smashed the willow had been the accompaniment of what Lute would call the “clearing-up shower.” The storm was really over.

We stepped up on the portico of the big house and I rang the bell. The butler opened the door. His face, as he saw the pair of dripping, bedraggled outcasts before him, was worth looking at. He was shocked out of his dignity.

“Why! Why, Miss Mabel!” he stammered, with almost human agitation. “What—”

A voice, a petulant female voice, called from the head of the stairs.

“Johnson,” it quavered, “who is it? Mabel, is that you?”

The library door flew open and Mr. Colton himself appeared.

“Eh? What?” he exclaimed. “By George! Mabel, where have you been? I have been raising heaven and earth to locate you. The 'phone seems to be out of order and—Great Scott, girl! you're wet through. Jenkins, what—? Hey? Why, it isn't Jenkins!”

The fact that his daughter's escort was not the coachman had just dawned upon him. He stared at me in irate bewilderment. Before he could ask a question or his daughter could speak or explain there came a little shriek from the stairs, a rustle of silken skirts, and a plump, white-faced woman in an elaborate house gown rushed across the hall with both white arms outstretched.

“Mabel!” she cried, “where HAVE you been. You poor child! I have been almost beside myself, and—”

Miss Colton laughingly avoided the rush. “Take care, Mother,” she warned. “I am very wet.”

“Wet? Why! you're absolutely drenched! Jenkins—Mabel, where is Jenkins? And who is this—er—person?”

I thought it quite time for me to withdraw.

“Good night, Miss Colton,” I said, and stepped toward the door. But “Big Jim” roared my name.

“It's that—it's Paine!” he exclaimed. “Here! what does this mean, anyway?”

I think his daughter was about to explain, when there came another interruption. From the driveway sounded the blare of an auto horn. Johnson threw open the door just as the big car whirled up to the porch.

“Here we are!” laughed Carver, emerging from behind the drawn curtains of the machine. “Home again from a foreign shore. Come in, fellows, and have a drink. We've had water enough for one night. Come in.”

He stumbled as he crossed the sill, recovered his balance, laughed, and then all at once seemed to become aware of the group in the hall. He looked about him, swaying a little as he did so.

“Ah, Mabel!” he exclaimed, genially. “Got here first, didn't you? Sorry I was late, but it was all old Parker's fault. Wouldn't let us say goodby. But we came some when we did come. The bridge is down and we made Oscar run her right through the water. Great ex-experience. Hello! Why, what's matter? Who's this? What? it's Reuben, isn't it! Mabel, what on earth—”

She paid no attention to him. I was at the door when she overtook me.

“Mr. Paine,” she said, “I am very grateful for your kindness. Both for what you have done tonight and for your help the other afternoon. Thank you.”

She held out her hand. I took it, scarcely knowing that I did so.

“Thank you,” she said, again. I murmured something or other and went out. As I stepped from the porch I heard Victor's voice.

“Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “Mabel!”

I looked back. He was standing by the door. She went past him without replying or even looking at him. From the automobile I heard smothered chuckles and exclamations. The butler closed the door.

I walked home as fast as I could. Dorinda was waiting up for me. What she said when she saw the ruin of my Sunday suit had better not be repeated. She was still saying it when I took my lamp and went up to bed.