As for Gracie, she's a brick, and a lady, every inch of her. My old girl went down t'other day to call on her and that's the fust Come-Outer she's been to see sence there was any. Why don't you go see her, too, Mr. Ellery? 'Twould be a welcome change from Zeke Ba.s.sett and his tribe.

Go ahead! it would be the Almighty's own work and the society'd stand back of you, all them that's wuth considerin', anyhow."

This was surprising advice from a member of the Regular and was indicative of the changed feeling in the community, but the minister, of course, could not take it. He had plunged headlong into his church work, hoping that it and time would dull the pain of his terrible shock and disappointment. It had been dulled somewhat, but it was still there, and every mention of her name revived it.

One afternoon Keziah came into his study, where he was laboring with his next Sunday sermon, and sat down in the rocking-chair. She had been out and still wore her bonnet and shawl.

"John," she said, "I ask your pardon for disturbin' you. I know you're busy."

Ellery laid down his pen. "Never too busy to talk with you, Aunt Keziah," he observed. "What is it?"

"I wanted to ask if you knew Mrs. Prince was sick?"

"No. Is she? I'm awfully sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?"

"No, I guess not. Only she's got a cold and is kind of under the weather. I thought p'r'aps you'd like to run up and see her. She thinks the world and all of you, 'cause you was so good when she was distressed about her son. Poor old thing! she's had a hard time of it."

"I will go. I ought to go, of course. I'm glad you reminded me of it."

"Yes. I told her you hadn't meant to neglect her, but you'd been busy fussin' with the fair and the like of that."

"That was all. I'll go right away. Have you been there to-day?"

"No. I just heard that she was ailin' from Didama Rogers. Didama said she was all but dyin', so I knew she prob'ly had a little cold, or somethin'. If she was really very bad, Di would have had her buried by this time, so's to be sure her news was ahead of anybody else's. I ain't been up there, but I met her t'other mornin'."

"Didama?"

"No; Mrs. Prince. She'd come down to see Grace."

"Oh."

"Yes. The old lady's been awful kind and sympathizin' since--since this new trouble. It reminds her of the loss of her own boy, I presume likely, and so she feels for Grace. John, what do they say around town about--about HIM?"

"Captain Hammond?"

"Yes."

The minister hesitated. Keziah did not wait for him to answer.

"I see," she said slowly. "Do they all feel that way?"

"Why, if you mean that they've all given up hope, I should hardly say that. Captain Mayo and Captain Daniels were speaking of it in my hearing the other day and they agreed that there was still a chance."

"A pretty slim one, though, they cal'lated, didn't they?"

"Well, they were--were doubtful, of course. There was the possibility that he had been wrecked somewhere and hadn't been picked up. They cited several such cases. The South Pacific is full of islands where vessels seldom touch, and he and his crew may be on one of these."

"Yes. They might, but I'm afraid not. Ah, hum!"

She rose and was turning away. Ellery rose also and laid his hand on her arm.

"Aunt Keziah," he said, "I'm very sorry. I respected Captain Hammond, in spite of--of--in spite of everything. I've tried to realize that he was not to blame. He was a good man and I haven't forgotten that he saved my life that morning on the flats. And I'm so sorry for YOU."

She did not look at him.

"John," she answered, with a sigh, "sometimes I think you'd better get another housekeeper."

"What? Are you going to leave me? YOU?"

"Oh, 'twouldn't be because I wanted to. But it seems almost as if there was a kind of fate hangin' over me and that," she smiled faintly, "as if 'twas sort of catchin', as you might say. Everybody I ever cared for has had somethin' happen to 'em. My brother died; my--the man I married went to the dogs; then you and Grace had to be miserable and I had to help make you so; I sent Nat away and he blamed me and--"

"No, no. He didn't blame you. He sent you word that he didn't."

"Yes, but he did, all the same. He must have. I should if I'd been in his place. And now he's dead, and won't ever understand--on this earth, anyhow. I guess I'd better clear out and leave you afore I spoil your life."

"Aunt Keziah, you're my anchor to windward, as they say down here. If I lost you, goodness knows where I should drift. Don't you ever talk of leaving me again."

"Thank you, John. I'm glad you want me to stay. I won't leave yet awhile; never--unless I have to."

"Why should you ever have to?"

"Well, I don't know. Yes, I do know, too. John, I had another letter t'other day."

"You did? From--from that man?"

"Yup, from--" For a moment it seemed as if she were about to p.r.o.nounce her husband's name, something she had never done in his presence; but if she thought of it, she changed her mind.

"From him," she said. "He wanted money, of course; he always does. But that wa'n't the worst. The letter was from England, and in it he wrote that he was gettin' sick of knockin' around and guessed he'd be for comin' to the States pretty soon and huntin' me up. Said what was the use of havin' an able-bodied wife if she couldn't give her husband a home."

"The scoundrel!"

"Yes, I know what he is, maybe full as well as you do. That's why I spoke of leavin' you. If that man comes to Trumet, I'll go, sure as death."

"No, no. Aunt Keziah, you must free yourself from him. No power on earth can compel you to longer support such a--"

"None on earth, no. But it's my punishment and I've got to put up with it. I married him with my eyes wide open, done it to spite the--the other, as much as anything, and I must bear the burden. But I tell you this, John: if he comes here, to this town, where I've been respected and considered a decent woman, if he comes here, I go--somewhere, anywhere that'll be out of the sight of them that know me. And wherever I go he shan't be with me. THAT I won't stand! I'd rather die, and I hope I do. Don't talk to me any more now--don't! I can't stand it."

She hurried out of the room. Later, as the minister pa.s.sed through the dining room on his way to the door, she spoke to him again.

"John," she said, "I didn't say what I meant to when I broke in on you just now. I meant to tell you about Grace. I knew you'd like to know and wouldn't ask. She's bearin' up well, poor girl. She thought the world of Nat, even though she might not have loved him in the way that--"

"What's that? What are you saying, Aunt Keziah?"

"I mean--well, I mean that he'd always been like an own brother to her and she cared a lot for him."

"But you said she didn't love him."

"Did I? That was a slip of the tongue, maybe. But she bears it well and I don't think she gives up hope. I try not to, for her sake, and I try not to show her how I feel."

She sewed vigorously for a few moments. Then she said: