Those were gloomy days at the parsonage.  Keziah said little concerning the topic of which all the village was talking, and John Ellery forebore to mention it.  The housekeeper was as faithful as ever in the performance of her household duties, but her smile had gone and she was worn and anxious.  The minister longed to express his sympathy, but Keziah had not mentioned Nat’s name for months, not since he, Ellery, gave her the message intrusted to him by the captain before sailing.  He would have liked to ask about Grace, for he knew Mrs. Coffin visited the Hammond home occasionally, but this, too, he hesitated to do.  He heard from others that the girl was bearing the suspense bravely, that she refused to give up hope, and was winning the respect of all the thinking class in Trumet by her courage and patience.  Even the most bigoted of the Regulars, Captain Daniels and his daughter excepted of course, had come to speak highly of her.  “She’s a spunky girl,” declared Captain Zeb, with emphasis.  “There’s nothing of the milk-sop and cry-baby about her.  She’s fit to be a sailor’s wife, and I only hope Nat’s alive to come back and marry her.  He was a durn good feller, too—­savin’ your presence, Mr. Ellery—­and if he was forty times a Come-Outer I’d say the same thing.  I’m ’fraid he’s gone, though, poor chap.  As good a seaman as he was would have fetched port afore this if he was atop of water.  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 Bassett 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.”