The minister, who had been pacing the floor, seized the note eagerly.

It was written in pencil and by a hand that had trembled much. Yet there was no indecision in the written words.

"Dear John," wrote Grace. "I presume Aunt Keziah has told you of uncle's death and of my promise to Nat. It is true. I am going to marry him. I am sure this is right and for the best. Our friendship was a mistake and you must not see me again. Please don't try.

"GRACE VAN HORNE."

Beneath was another paragraph.

"Don't worry about me. I shall be happy, I am sure. And I shall hope that you may be. I shall pray for that."

The note fell to the floor with a rustle that sounded loud in the stillness. Then Keziah heard the minister's step. She turned. He was moving slowly across the room.

"John," she cried anxiously, "you poor boy!"

He answered without looking back.

"I'm--going--up--to--my--room," he said, a pause between each word. "I want to be alone awhile, Mrs. Coffin."

Wearily Keziah set about preparing breakfast. Not that she expected the meal would be eaten, but it gave her something to do and occupied her mind. The sun had risen and the light streamed in at the parsonage windows. The breeze blew fresh and cool from the ocean. It was a magnificent morning.

She called to him that breakfast was ready, but he did not answer. She could eat nothing herself, and, when the table was cleared, prepared to do the week's washing, for Monday is always washday in Trumet. Noon came, dinner time, but still he did not come down. At last Keziah could stand it no longer. She determined to go to him. She climbed the steep stairs and rapped on the door of his room.

"Yes?" she heard him say.

"It's me," was the reply. "Mr. Ellery, can I come in? I know you want to be alone, but I don't think you'd ought to be, too much. I'd like to talk with you a few minutes; may I?"

A moment pa.s.sed before he told her to enter. He was sitting in a chair by the window, dressed just as he had been when she returned from the tavern. She looked sharply at his face as it was turned toward her. His eyes were dry and in them was an expression so hopeless and dreary that the tears started to her own.

"John," she said, "I couldn't bear to think of your facin' it alone up here. I just had to come."

He smiled, and the smile was as hopeless as the look in his eyes.

"Face it?" he repeated. "Well, Mrs. Coffin, I must face it, I suppose.

I've been facing it ever since--since I knew. And I find it no easier."

"John, what are you goin' to do?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Go away somewhere, first of all, I guess. Go somewhere and--and try to live it down. I can't, of course, but I must try."

"Go away? Leave Trumet and your church and your congregation?"

"Did you suppose I could stay here?"

"I hoped you would."

"And see the same people and the same places? And do the same things?

See--see HER! Did you"--he moved impatiently--"did you expect me to attend the wedding?"

She put out her hand. "I know it'll be hard," she said, "stayin' here, I mean. But your duty to others--"

"Don't you think we've heard enough about duty to others? How about my duty to myself?"

"I guess that's the last thing we ought to think about in the world, if we do try to be fair and square. Your church thinks a heap of you, John.

They build on you. You've done more in the little while you've been here than Mr. Langley did in his last fifteen years. We've grown and we're doin' good--doin' it, not talkin' it in prayer meetin'. The parish committee likes you and the poor folks in the society love you. Old Mrs.

Prince was tellin' me, only a little spell ago, that she didn't know how she'd have pulled through this dreadful time if 'twa'n't for you. And there's lots of others. Are you goin' to leave them? And what reason will you give for leavin'?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he answered. "I may not give any. But I shall go."

"I don't believe you will. I don't believe you're that kind. I've watched you pretty sharp since you and I have been livin' together and I have more faith in you than that comes to. You haven't acted to me like a coward and I don't think you'll run away."

"Mrs. Coffin, it is so easy for you to talk. Perhaps if I were in your place I should be giving good advice about duty and not running away and so on. But suppose you were in mine."

"Well, suppose I was."

"Suppose--Oh, but there! it's past supposing."

"I don't know's 'tis. My life hasn't been all sunshine and fair winds, by no means."

"That's true. I beg your pardon. You have had troubles and, from what I hear, you've borne them bravely. But you haven't had to face anything like this."

"Haven't I? Well, what is it you're asked to face? Disappointment? I've faced that. Sorrow and heartbreak? I've faced them."

"You've never been asked to sit quietly by and see the one you love more than all the world marry some one else."

"How do you know I ain't? How do you know I ain't doin' just that now?"

"Mrs. Coffin!"

"John Ellery, you listen to me. You think I'm a homely old woman, probably, set in my ways as an eight-day clock. I guess I look like it and act like it. But I ain't so awful old--on the edge of forty, that's all. And when I was your age I wa'n't so awful homely, either. I had fellers aplenty hangin' round and I could have married any one of a dozen. This ain't boastin'; land knows I'm fur from that. I was brought up in this town and even when I was a girl at school there was only one boy I cared two straws about. He and I went to picnics together and to parties and everywhere. Folks used to laugh and say we was keepin'

comp'ny, even then.

"Well, when I was eighteen, after father died, I went up to New Bedford to work in a store there. Wanted to earn my own way. And this young feller I'm tellin' you about went away to sea, but every time he come home from a voyage he come to see me and things went on that way till we was promised to each other. The engagement wa'n't announced, but 'twas so, just the same. We'd have been married in another year. And then we quarreled.

"'Twas a fool quarrel, same as that kind gen'rally are. As much my fault as his and as much his as mine, I cal'late. Anyhow, we was both proud, or thought we was, and neither would give in. And he says to me, 'You'll be sorry after I'm gone. You'll wish me back then.' And says I, BEIN' a fool, 'I guess not. There's other fish in the sea.' He sailed and I did wish him back, but I wouldn't write fust and neither would he. And then come another man."

She paused, hesitated, and then continued.

"Never mind about the other man. He was handsome then, in a way, and he had money to spend, and he liked me. He wanted me to marry him. If--if the other, the one that went away, had written I never would have thought of such a thing, but he didn't write. And, my pride bein' hurt, and all, I finally said yes to the second chap. My folks did all they could to stop it; they told me he was dissipated, they said he had a bad name, they told me twa'n't a fit match. And his people, havin' money, was just as set against his takin' a poor girl. Both sides said ruin would come of it. But I married him.

"Well, for the first year 'twa'n't so bad. Not happiness exactly, but not misery either. That come later. His people was well off and he'd never worked much of any. He did for a little while after we was married, but not for long. Then he begun to drink and carry on and lost his place. Pretty soon he begun to neglect me and at last went off to sea afore the mast. We was poor as poverty, but I could have stood that; I did stand it. I took in sewin' and kept up an appearance, somehow.

Never told a soul. His folks come patronizin' around and offered me money, so's I needn't disgrace them. I sent 'em rightabout in a hurry.

Once in a while he'd come home, get tipsy and abuse me. Still I said nothin'. Thank G.o.d, there was no children; that's the one thing I've been thankful for.

"You can't keep such things quiet always. People are bound to find out.

They come to me and said, 'Why don't you leave him?' but I wouldn't.