The housekeeper opened the door.  Ike held up an envelope, clutched in a grimy hand.

“It’s for you, Mrs. Keziah,” he said.  “Gracie, she sent it.  There ain’t no answer.”

Keziah took the letter.  “How is she?  And how’s Nat?” she asked.

“They’re doin’ pretty well, so ma says.  Ma’s there now and they’ve sent for Hannah Poundberry.  Gee!” he added, yawning, “I ain’t slept a wink.  Been on the jump, now I tell ye.  Didn’t none of them Come-Outers git in, not one.  I sent ’em on the home tack abilin’.  You ought to hear me give old Zeke Bassett Hail Columby!  Gosh!  I was just ahopin’ he’d come.”

Mrs. Coffin closed the door and tore open the envelope.  Within was another addressed, in Grace’s handwriting, to Mr. Ellery.  The housekeeper entered the study, handed it to him and turned away.

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 passed 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.