Yet, as she rode, the unconquerable common sense within her kept whispering that this thing was possible. . . .  It darkened the sunlight.  She rode as one who, having sung carelessly for miles, surmises a dreadful leap close ahead.  Still she rode on, less and less sure of herself, and came to the church porch, and alighted.

The church was a plain oblong building, homely within to the last degree.  The pews were of pitch-pine, the walls and rafters coated with white-wash, some of which had peeled off and lay strewing the floor.  A smell of oil filled the air; it was sweet and sickly, and came from the oozings of half a dozen untended lamps.  Ornament the place had none, save a decent damask cloth on the Communion table.

Oliver Vyell stood by the chancel rail.  The rest of the congregation comprised Mr. Trask, seated stiff and solitary in the largest pew, Mrs. Strongtharm, and half a score of children whom Mrs. Strongtharm had collected on the way and against her will.  They followed her by habit, after goodies; but just now, though they sat quiet, her reputation was suffering from a transient distrust. (Allurements to piety rarely fell in the path of a New England child; but even he was child enough to suspect them when they occurred.) At the sound of the mare’s footsteps they turned their heads, one and all.  Mr. Silk, clad in white surplice and nervously turning the pages of the Office by the holy table, faced about also.

Ruth was seen alighting, out there in the sunlight.  She hitched the mare’s bridle over a staple and came lightly stepping through the shadow of the porchway.  Her lover walked down the aisle to meet her.  He, too, stepped briskly, courteously.

Three paces within the doorway she came to a halt.  The sunlight fell on her again, through the first of the southern windows.  It flamed on the leaves pinned to her bosom.

He offered his arm.  But she, that had come stepping like a wild fawn, like a fawn stood at gaze, terrified, staring past him at the figure by the table.  Mr. Silk commanded an oily smile and, book in hand, advanced to the chancel step.

“Ah, no!” she murmured.  “It is wicked—­”

She cast her eyes around, as though for help.  They did not turn—­it was pitifullest of all—­to him who was about to swear to help her throughout life.  They turned and encountered Mr. Trask’s.

With a sob, as Sir Oliver would have taken her arm, she threw it up, broke from him, and fled back through the porchway.  As she drew back that one pace before fleeing, the sun fell full again on that breast-knot of scarlet leaves.

He stared after her dumbfoundered, still doubting her intent.  He saw her catch at the mare’s bridle, and, with a bitter curse, ran forward.  But he was too late.  She had mounted, and was away.

He heard the mare’s hoofs clattering up the street.  His own horse was stabled at the Ferry Inn.  It would cost him ten minutes at least to mount and pursue. . . .