"Come, brethren," commanded the captain sharply; "we are waitin' to hear you. Are you afraid? If your faith is real, nothin' nor n.o.body should keep you from cryin' it out loud. Now, if ever, is the accepted time.

Speak up for the spirit that's in you."

An elderly man, grave and quiet, arose and said a few words, dignified and solemn words of prayer and thankfulness for the comfort this little society of true believers had been to him. Ellery realized that here was another sort of Come-Outer, one of the Hammond type. Evidently, they were not all like Ezekiel and the shrill-voiced woman.

Then, from the settee in front of him, rose the lengthy and fishy person with the cowhide boots and enormous hands. His name was Josiah Badger and he was, according to Trumet's estimate, "a little mite lackin' in his top riggin'." He stuttered, and this infirmity became more and more apparent as he grew eloquent.

"I--I ain't afraid," he proclaimed. "They can call me a C-C-Come-Outer all they want to. I--I don't care if they do. Let 'em, I say; l-let 'em!

They can p-p-poke their fun and p-p-p-pup-pup-poke it, but I tell 'em to h-heave ahead and p-pup-pup-POKE. When I used to g-go to their old Reg'lar meetin' house, all I done was to go to sleep. But I don't go to sleep here, glory hallelujah! No, sir! There's too much b-b-blessed noise and we have too g-good times to g-go to sleep here. That old K-Kyan Pepper called me t-town f-fool t'other day. T-tut-town fool's what he called me. Says I to him, says I: 'You-you-y-you ain't got s.p.u.n.k enough to be a fool,' I says, 'unless Laviny says you c-can be. You old Reg'lar p-p-pepper shaker, you!"

By this time tee-hees from the children and chuckles from some of the older members interfered with Mr. Badger's fervent but jerky discourse.

Captain Eben struck the table smartly.

"Silence!" he thundered. "Silence! Brother Badger, I beg your pardon for 'em. Go on!"

But Josiah's train of thought had evidently been derailed by the interruption.

"I--I--I cal'late that's about all," he stammered and sat down.

The captain looked over the meeting.

"I'm ashamed," he said, "ashamed of the behavior of some of us in the Lord's house. This has been a failure, this service of ours. We have kept still when we should have justified our faith, and allowed the presence of a stranger to interfere with our duty to the Almighty. And I will say," he added, his voice rising and trembling with indignation, "to him who came here uninvited and broke up this meetin', that it would be well for him to remember the words of Scriptur', 'Woe unto ye, false prophets and workers of iniquity.' Let him remember what the Divine wisdom put into my head to read to-night: 'The pastors have become brutish and have not sought the Lord; therefore they shall not prosper.'"

"Amen!" "Amen!" "Amen!" "So be it!" The cries came from all parts of the little room. They ceased abruptly, for John Ellery was on his feet.

"Captain Hammond," he said, "I realize that I have no right to speak in this building, but I must say one word. My coming here to-night may have been a mistake; I'm inclined to think it was. But I came not, as you seem to infer, to sneer or to scoff; certainly I had no wish to disturb your service. I came because I had heard repeatedly, since my arrival in this town, of this society and its meetings. I had heard, too, that there seemed to be a feeling of antagonism, almost hatred, against me among you here. I couldn't see why. Most of you have, I believe, been at one time members of the church where I preach. I wished to find out for myself how much of truth there was in the stories I had heard and to see if a better feeling between the two societies might not be brought about. Those were my reasons for coming here to-night. As for my being a false prophet and a worker of iniquity"--he smiled--"well, there is another verse of Scripture I would call to your attention: 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.'"

He sat down. There was silence for a moment and then a buzz of whispering. Captain Eben, who had heard him with a face of iron hardness, rapped the table.

"We will sing in closin'," he said, "the forty-second hymn. After which the benediction will be p.r.o.nounced."

The Regular minister left the Come-Outers' meeting with the unpleasant conviction that he had blundered badly. His visit, instead of tending toward better understanding and more cordial relationship, had been regarded as an intrusion. He had been provoked into a public justification, and now he was quite sure that he would have been more politic to remain silent. He realized that the evening's performance would cause a sensation and be talked about all over town. The Come-Outers would glory in their leader's denunciation of him, and his own people would perhaps feel that it served him right. If he had only told Mrs. Coffin of what he intended to do. Yet he had not told her because he meant to do it anyhow. Altogether it was a rather humiliating business.

So that old bigot was the Van Horne girl's "uncle." It hardly seemed possible that she, who appeared so refined and ladylike when he met her at the parsonage, should be a member of that curious company. When he rose to speak he had seen her in the front row, beside the thin, middle-aged female who had entered the chapel with Captain Hammond and with her. She was looking at him intently. The lamp over the speaker's table had shone full on her face and the picture remained in his memory.

He saw her eyes and the wavy shadows of her hair on her forehead.

He stepped off the platform, across the road, out of the way of homeward-bound Come-Outers, and stood there, thinking. The fog was as heavy and wet as ever; in fact, it was almost a rain. The wind was blowing hard from the northwest. The congregation dispersed in chattering groups, their lanterns dipping and swinging like fireflies.

The chatter dealt entirely with one subject--himself. He heard his name mentioned at least twenty times. Out of the gusty, dripping blackness came Mr. Badger's voice.

"By time!" crowed Josiah, "he was took down a few p-p-pup-pegs, wa'n't he! My! how Eben did g-gi-gi-give it to him. He looked toler'ble white under the gills when he riz up to heave out his s-s-sus-sa.s.sy talk. And foolish, too. I cal'late I won't be the only town fuf-fuf-fool from now on. He! he!"

The noises died away in the distance. Within the chapel the tramp of heavy boots sounded as the lights were blown out, one by one. The minister frowned, sighed, and turned homeward. It is not pleasant to be called a fool, even by a recognized member of the fraternity.

He had taken but a few steps when there was a rustle in the wet gra.s.s behind him.

"Mr. Ellery," whispered a voice, "Mr. Ellery, may I speak to you just a moment?"

He wheeled in surprise.

"Why! why, Miss Van Horne!" he exclaimed. "Is it you?"

"Mr. Ellery," she began, speaking hurriedly and in a low voice, "I--I felt that I must say a word to you before--"

She paused and glanced back at the chapel. Ezekiel Ba.s.sett, the janitor, having extinguished the last lamp, had emerged from the door and was locking up. In another moment he clumped past them in the middle of the road, the circle of light from his lantern just missing them as they stood in the gra.s.s at the side under the hornbeam and blackberry bushes.

He was alone; Sukey B. had gone on before, other and younger masculine escort having been providentially provided.

Mr. Ba.s.sett was out of hearing before Grace finished her sentence. The minister was silent, waiting and wondering.

"I felt," she said, "that I must see you and--explain. I am SO sorry you came here to-night. Oh, I wish you hadn't. What made you do it?"

"I came," began Ellery, somewhat stiffly, "because I--well, because I thought it might be a good thing to do. As I said--"

"Yes, I know. But it wasn't. It was so--so--"

"So foolish. Thank you, I'm aware of it. I've heard myself called a fool already since I left your church. Not that I needed to hear it. I realize the fact."

There was a bitterness in his tone, unmistakable. And a little laugh from his companion did not tend to soothe his feelings.

"Thank you," he said. "Perhaps it is funny. I did not find it so. Good evening."

This was priggish, but it must be borne in mind that John Ellery was very, very fresh from the theological school, where young divines are taught to take themselves seriously. He was ashamed of himself as soon as he said it, which proved that his case was not beyond hope.

The girl detained him as he was turning away.

"I wasn't laughing at that," she said. "I know who called you that--that name. It was Josiah Badger, and he really is one, you know. I was thinking of his testimony in meeting and how he called Ky--Abishai--a pepper shaker. That was ridiculous enough, but it reminded me of something else about Mr. Pepper, and I HAD to laugh. It wasn't at you, truly."

So the minister begged her pardon; also he remained where he was, and heard the drops from the tree patter hollow on his hat.

"I came after you," went on Grace rapidly and with nervous haste, "because I felt that you ought not to misjudge my uncle for what he said to-night. He wouldn't have hurt your feelings for the world. He is a good man and does good to everybody. If you only knew the good he does do, you wouldn't--you wouldn't DARE think hardly of him."

She stamped her foot in the wet gra.s.s as she said it. She was evidently in earnest. But Ellery was not in the mood to be greatly impressed by Eben Hammond's charity or innate goodness. The old tavern keeper's references to himself were too fresh in his mind. "False prophet" and "worker of iniquity!"

"I'm not judging your uncle," he declared. "It seemed to me that the boot was on the other leg."

"I know, but you do judge him, and you mustn't. You see, he thought you had come to make fun of him--and us. Some of the Regular people do, people who aren't fit to tie his shoes. And so he spoke against you.

He'll be sorry when he thinks it over. That's what I came to tell you. I ask your pardon for--for him."

"Why--why, that's all right. I think I understood--"

"I'm not asking it because he's a Come-Outer and you're a Regular minister. He isn't ashamed of his religion. Neither am I. I'm a Come-Outer, too."

"Yes. I--I supposed you were."

"Yes, I am. There, good night, Mr. Ellery. All I ask is that you don't think too hardly of uncle. He didn't mean it."

She turned away now, and it was the minister who detained her.

"I've been thinking," he said slowly, for in his present state of mind it was a hard thing to say, "that perhaps I ought to apologize, too.

I'm afraid I did disturb your service and I'm sorry. I meant well, but--What's that? Rain?"