But now, after the second warning, Miss Abigail felt the need of some cheer for herself as she toiled among the hollyhocks and larkspurs.  She would not let herself think of the significance of the visit of the agent for the chairs, and she could not force herself to think of anything else.  For several wretched weeks she hung in this limbo.  Then, one morning as she stood gazing at her Speciosums Rubrums without seeing them, she received her summons to the front.  She had a call from her neighbor, Mr. Edward Horton, whom the rest of the world knows as a sculptor, but whom Miss Abigail esteemed only because of his orthodox ideas on rose culture.  He came in to ask some information about a blight on his Red Ramblers, although after Miss Abigail had finished her strong recommendation to use whale oil soap sprayed, and not hellebore, he still lingered, crushing a leaf of lemon verbena between his fingers and sniffing the resultant perfume with thoughtful appreciation.  He was almost as enthusiastic a horticulturist as Miss Abigail, and stood high in her good graces as one of the few individuals of sense among the summer colony.  She faced him therefore in a peaceable, friendly mood, glad of the diversion from her thoughts, and quite unprepared for the shock he was about to give her.

“I’m on my way to interview the trustees of the church,” he remarked.  “It is curious that all but one of them now really live in Johnsonville, although they still keep their nominal residence here.”

“What do you want to see them for?” asked Miss Abigail, with a bluntness caused in part by her wincing at his casual statement of an unwelcome fact.

“Why, I’ve had what I flatter myself is an inspiration for everyone concerned.  I’ve got a big commission for part of the decorations of the new State House in Montana, and I need a very large studio.  It occurred to me the other day that instead of building I’d save time by buying the old church here and using that.”

Miss Abigail leaned against the palings. “Buy our church!” she said, and every letter was a capital.

“I didn’t know you were a member,” said the sculptor, a little surprised.  “You don’t often go.”

Miss Abigail shouted out, “Why, my grandfather was minister in that church!” Mr. Horton received this as a statement of fact.  “Indeed?  I didn’t realize the building was so old.  I wonder if the foundations are still in good shape.”  He went on, explanatorily, “I really don’t know why I hadn’t thought of the plan before.  The number who attend church in that great barn of a place could easily be put into someone’s parlor, and save the trustees the expense of heating.  One of them whom I saw the other day seemed quite pleased with the notion—­said they’d been at a loss to know what to do about conditions here.”  He glanced at his watch.  “Well, I must be going or I shall miss the train to Johnsonville.  Thank you very much for the hint about the blight.”