"See here, Hannah! Seems to me if I'm willin' to turn out at that unG.o.dly 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 st.i.tch.

"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 gra.s.s 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."